Rift
by SteveGarbage
Summary: When the Circle of Thedas fell, not all rebelled. While Templars and mages war across the world, the mages themselves still stand divided. The Loyalists pledge themselves to the Inquisition in hopes of restoring their lost Circles. But as the Herald of Andraste recruits the Rebel mages to his cause, both sides must confront their differences as they fight to restore order to Thedas
1. Chapter 1

**One**

The Comtesse sat up on her forearms, lying on her stomach, her bare back arched and her chocolate hair spilling over her shoulder as she turned her head.

Taesas sat at the end of the couch, buttoning the front of his velvet jacket.

"You should dress. Your presence will be missed," he told her flatly. "And you'll stain the longue."

The Comtesse moaned and kicked her legs up and down like a child throwing a tantrum, her feet bouncing off the white padded cushions. The ornate chaise was the centerpiece of the library. The dark hardwood had been hand hewed from the Tirashan in the far west. The legs of the chair were intricately carved to resemble a lion's paws, while the gently sloping back took on the form of a roaring lion. The cushions were upholstered in pure Vyrantium samite imported from Tevinter, so pristinely white that any extended use would spoil it forever.

The Comtesse had demanded Taesas take her upon the couch, prizing the feat of despoiling the Duke's furniture more than the pleasure of the act itself. She was playing the Game, but playing it poorly. Duke Bastien might have been unwell these past few months, but such a slight would never go unpunished. The Comtesse would be socially destroyed. It might take a month or two for the Duke to retaliate, but it was inevitable.

"Mmm, I must say that your reputation is well deserved, Enchanter," the Comtesse said, rolling onto her back, throwing her right arm lazily across her forehead, covering her bare chest with her left hand with a feigned modesty.

"The pleasure was mine, Comtesse," Taesas lied. She was rigid and overly enthusiastic. She squealed like livestock and her face contorted in unsightly ways in her passion. "I trust that you will have no issue convincing your husband to think of the Chantry and the Loyalist Mages when he opens his vault in philanthropy."

The Comtesse snickered and sat up, grabbing her gown off the floor. She stood, quickly stepping inside, pulling it up her legs, over her bare backside and upon her shoulders. "I hope this was more than just business to you."

It wasn't. But Taesas stepped behind her, wrapping his hands around her waist and planting a kiss on her neck. He worked his way up, his tongue tracing the curve of her ear as he gently nibbled her earlobe, causing her to shiver. "Of course not, Perrette," he lied. "My eyes have been upon you since you arrived."

His eyes _had_ been upon her, but not out of boyish infatuation. She was a target. She had been quietly inquiring about the elf for the last month after catching sight of him at a fete in Val Foret. Perrette was connected, albeit not particularly powerful.. What little influence she had could be turned to the cause, used up and discarded when it ran empty.

She twisted her head, nuzzling the side of her head into him, holding his hands with one while she reached back to fondle him. "You could always push me up against that bookshelf," she suggested.

She smelled of tuberose, but was heavy-handed and gauche. If she had class, she would have selected a scent of jasmine or even of citrus in the summer heat, but she lacked grace. The stench overwhelmed the smells of dust and old paper that filled the library. It was a room the Duke had not been in much at all since his illness.

Her makeup was so caked upon her cheeks to cover blemishes that at this distance her face looked like a pastry caked in powdered sugar. The gems in her earrings also looked too glassy to be real and Taesas knew that some swindling jeweler had sold her counterfeits. "I'm afraid we've already overstayed our diversion, sweetling."

She groaned with displeasure. "You're right, of course," the Comtesse said. "We shall have to do this again sometime, perhaps while my husband is away on business."

Taesas helped her lace up the back of her gown, tying the strings into a bow in a different shape than she was wearing before. She would never know, because she was fumbling and oblivious. But the more sharp-eyed players of the Game would take note, for sure. "You know how to contact me, always, Perrette," he said, planting one more kiss on her cheek before sending her out the door of the library. She tasted of bitter powder.

She quickly scampered away, donning her mask at the doorway and returning to the salon as if nothing was amiss.

The upholstery on the chaise longue was noticeable damp. The Comtesse had sweated like a laborer. The chair was ruined, as expected.

He grabbed the two thin braids of black hair from across his temple and tucked them behind his ears. The Comtesse had grabbed the pointed tips of his ears as he supped upon her sex. They always touched his ears. The highborn of Orlais were always infatuated with the taboo. Elves were everywhere. Often abused. But no noble would openly dare to take a servant into his or her bedchamber.

But when that elf was a ranking Enchanter from the illustrious Circle in Montsimmard, the Game changed. The chase became a daring and exhilarating hunt requiring proper, subtle steps and the right type of influence to close the deal. If the dance could be done properly, the pursuit was a trophy. Incorrectly, and it would cause scandal.

There was a cost to dabble in such taboos and the Circle always left the richer.

Taesas straightened the collar on his jacket, ran a hand through his jet hair to smooth and push it back over the top of his head. He snapped the cuffs of his shirt and lifted his mask back to his face. Most elves would never get the privilege to don such finery, but his position in the Circle, his vast connections gave him many opportunities the drudges of Orlais could never dream. He stepped back into the hallway, quickly looking left and right to see if anyone else was there.

There was no one. He was alone, except for shadows, whispers and rumor that were already circulating in the ballroom below. His work was done for the evening.

Taesas stepped past the trophy room and out the balcony overlooking the west garden. The south garden was the larger and the more impressive with its many flowers, blooming trees and the shrubbery labyrinth with its many, many lovers' alcoves. It was especially popular during the spring parties the Duke hosted after the cold and harshness of winter's chill and snow. Many young people intoxicated on the spring air could slip away for a moment to steal salacious words and soft lover' kisses.

But the west garden had a shimmering pool that reflected the starlight, the slight ripples on the glassy surface causing the points of light to dance and twirl in the water. The few cherry trees were also in bloom, their soft pink petals fluttering down like snow with each gust of wind.

"Take care, my dear," a deceptively sweet, powerful voice echoed through the hallway. "We shall be seeing each other again soon."

"The pleasure was all mine, Lady Vivienne." A man's voice. Marcher. Eastern accent. Taesas turned his head, looking back through the open doorway.

The man wore sturdy armor, a horn at his belt, a greatsword strapped across his back. He wore no mask, carried himself without the cautious posture of an Orlesian. He was certainly no chevalier. Arriving in the garb of war was a faux pas, but he was clearly not of the court. He wore no signet that Taesas could see, at least from this distance and angle.

His brown hair had been pushed back, the dusting of stubble across his cheeks and jaw. He was not handsome. His cheeks and mouth had a soft fatigue, but his eyes were hard and his brows cast, trying to study and understand. At first glance he appeared to be no one of import. A foreigner, a middling, with no immediately apparent influence.

But as he turned toward the stairs, his left hand lifting slightly for the rail, Tae could see the subtle green glow, the dim, ethereal light slashed across his palm.

The First Enchanter had just made a very, very powerful ally.

She caught Tae's eye as she waited for the Herald of Andraste to descend the stairs, then slowly glided toward the balcony, her silverite mask shining. He smiled as she approached, leaning back against the railing of the balcony and giving the First Enchanter a slow, quiet clap as she crossed the threshold.

"I was not aware you were courting prophets born of the Fade this evening," he said.

"There was word that he was in Val Royeaux, trying unsuccessfully to convince the weaklings that make up the remainder of the Chantry to silence their bleating," Vivienne said, resting her hands on the balcony as she came up next to him. "I sent an invitation. I honestly did not expect that he would accept it. Fortuitous, but not unwelcome."

"Always working," he commented.

She looked at him, shooting one of her frowns of disapproval. "I could say the same about you. I had to take the Herald down the hallway out of earshot of your own encounters, Taesas, darling."

He rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. "You should be the one apologizing to me, Vivienne. I'm in desperate need of a bath after rolling in with the swine."

Vivienne let a single "ha" escape her lips, quite an uncommon outburst for the stoic First Enchanter. "Oh Taesas, dear, you are a delight." She smiled, her fingertips lightly grazing his shoulder. It was rare for her to smile, only done in private and very rarely even at that. "Please tell me you didn't spoil my Bastien's favorite chair."

Tae ran his hand across his chin. His face smelled of the Comtesse. The stink made his stomach ill. "It's quite destroyed," he said. "I'd purge the whole room with fire, just to be safe."

Vivienne groaned. "My dear Bastien does love that chair," she mused, looking off into the garden, suddenly seeming sad at thinking of the aged Duke. He had been bedridden for weeks now, the sickness slowly eating away at him. He had grown so thin and frail, he hardly looked the man who had led the Council of Heralds with such surety, principle and conviction.

She had spent many of the recent weeks here, in Ghislain, despite the turmoil of the war raging across Orlais. She did not speak of the Duke often. There was pain in her voice, well-hidden, but still there for those who knew how to hear it.

The Duke had been a means for Vivienne to quickly cultivate an expansive field of influence in Orlais. Perhaps at once their relationship had been one of convenience, Vivienne seeking power and the Duke seeking companionship. But Taesas was more aware than others that she did have a genuine love and affection for the man, ancient as he was.

"Sacrifices are inevitable in the war," Taesas reminded her. "I believe it was you who told me that."

"Indeed."

Her ebony skin was a smooth and delicate as ever, softly touched in the gentle moonlight. Vivienne towered next to him, a pillar of power and influence. The royal sea silk upon her dress was pristine without a single crease or wrinkle, the pure white leather rigid and unmarked, the silverite accoutrements upon the collared wings, the gold that ringed the oversized shoulder pieces, the plunging corset that cinched her waist and lifted her breast.

She had come from humble origin, and vaulted to power within the Circle in few short years. She was shrewd, intelligent, powerful and merciless. Tae stood in her shadow, inches shorter but miles below her in her expansive influence. Vivienne consulted directly with the Empress and her will and call alone held together the remains of the Circle.

Taesas loved her. Known, but unrequited.

Her rebuffs of his advances were curt, carefully worded and planned, delivered with the same polite but stern ruthlessness she exhibited in all matters. Taesas had known she would reject him, not just because of Bastien, but because she was untouchable. He would be a liability, a problem, a weakness in her machine. All this he knew. All this was apparent. Yet he could not shake his admiration and infatuation.

Although other mages called her "loyalist" with disdain, Vivienne wore their ire with pride. The First Enchanter had shown that one could gain much in the Circle if they played by the rules they were given. She was intelligent, beautiful and intimidated by no one. How could he not love everything she was and every ideal she stood for?

Taesas had resolved to move forward with his confession despite the risks. He had no expectation she would acquiesce to his feelings, but for his own sanity he had forged ahead. Vivienne could have easily destroyed him, crushed his standing and set him amidst the bumbling mages and enchanters who did little more than exist in the Circle.

Instead she had raised him up.

She had not pushed him away since that day two years ago. She had pulled him closer, respectful of his candor and his initiative. They had only come closer, strengthening his longing. She knew, holding those strings and tugging them as she needed.

He freely gave her the control.

Tasesas turned around, resting his forearms across the balcony next to her, stealing a glance down her corset, feeling a longing clench in his groin that he had not felt at all before laying with the Comtesse.

"We're joining the Inquisition," Vivienne declared as she stared out into the garden.

There was a long silence before Vivienne slightly turned her head to him. Her face looked as if she was waiting for a response, something that he had not expected of her.

"I must admit, you disarm me, Vivienne," Taesas said. "I don't take you as the type to ask for permission. Or approval."

"I want your opinion." Her answer was blunt and flat. Was it doubt that he sensed? Or was she merely testing him? If this was merely a move of the Game, he was losing points for every second he delayed. The First Enchanter made decisions and issued commands. She did not solicit opinion.

He hadn't thought about it much. They had heard of the Inquisition and its leaders. Many claimed the fledgling rebellion was led by a man that many were claiming was the new prophet. At his side were the Right and Left hands of Divine Justinia. The explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes had decimated the Chantry and taken a good chunk of both the Templars and the rebels with it.

"The Chantry can't protect us anymore," Taesas said, leaving it at that, not risking exposing any more of himself to Vivienne. Although he served at her will, a learned player of the Game never gave all of himself. Alliances and friendships were notoriously fleeting in Orlais.

Word had spread quickly from Val Royeaux of the way the Lord Seeker had publicly humiliated those who posed as the last remnants of Chantry power and influence.

The Circles had fallen spectacularly. At the first opportunity for mages to decide their own fate, they had done exactly what the Chantry had always suspected they would. They tore each other apart in an orgy of blood, magic and unchecked power. Blood had flowed through the halls of White Spire. A similar massacre might have occurred in Montsimmard, had Vivienne not been there with her iron fist to prevent the mages from doing anything equally as foolish.

Some of the mages, apprentices mostly, had deserted the Circle over the next week, turning escape fantasies into realities. But thankfully no one had been killed and few dared to speak out against Vivienne's rule.

The few Libertarians in Montsimmard negotiated a peaceful release from the Circle with what Templars remained after Lambert nullified the Nevarran Accord. Almost all of the Aequitarians agreed to stay. Taesas led the small contingent of Lucrosians, but everyone knew his leash was held firmly in the palm of the First Enchanter.

"Marquis Brevere has requested your presence at his summer chateau," Vivienne said, moving on to other matters, which only made Taesas further question what she had really been prying at. "I told him that you were needed back in Montsimmard, but that I was sure you would make the slight diversion north to visit with him."

Taesas let a small groan escape him. While the Comtesse had been middling, the Marquis commanded actual power and wealth. Unlike the Comtesse, he was also an extremely skilled player of the Game, one who knew how to dance all the proper steps on the metaphorical dance floor, despite his age and girth preventing him from doing so in the physical plane.

The last time Taesas had made a private visit to the Marquis, they had walked through the Marquis' extensive gallery, discussing some of the new paintings and sculptures, the portly man's face flush all the while they spoke. When Taesas had joked that his neck was stiff from craning to observe all the art, the Marquis had his elven servants oil and massage Taesas for more than an hour as the noble sat nearby drinking wine and fanning himself from the midday heat.

The Marquis abruptly excused himself after that, having come down with a sudden and incapacitating case of the vapours. In his stead, he offered the full hospitality of his estate to Taesas in condolence for his unexpected indisposition. He had enjoyed a dinner of perfectly poached eggs, a medium steak so coated in black pepper that it delicately straddled the fine line of brute spice and inedibility and a delightful bottle of 8:97 port from a long-defunct vintner outside Rialto whose later declarations never touched the intricacy and complexity of his pre-Dragon Age bottles.

The Marquis later sent a veritable delegation of his servants, both men and elves, adults, nubiles and pubescent courtesans of both sexes to attend to whatever pleasure or fancy he might desire in bed. By then, Taesas' head was spinning from the fortified wine he imbibed while reading. He politely sent them all away with many thanks to his gracious host.

"I wouldn't be surprised if he had a master sculptor awaiting my arrival to carve my likeness into marble for his bedchamber," Taesas commented. "Although it is your flawless form that the Brevere should be wanting to preserve."

The First Enchanter was not impressed, although he had not expected her to be. Still, he always liked to proffer a verbal reminder or a small gift of affection from time to time to gauge her reaction and test the limits of her patience. Her response had never been anything he would consider close to warm, but likewise they had never been cold or curt.

"You can save your flattery for the Marquis, darling."

A breeze sent rippled across the reflecting pool, blurring the starlight in the water. The leaves of the trees rustled, sending pink petals fluttering to the ground. He could hear the sound of strings as the players picked up again in the main hall after a slight recess. Taesas could feel the taste for red wine developing on his tongue, the need to wash the filth from his mouth.

They stood quietly for a moment, the shadow of the First Enchanter swallowing him as he leaned across the railing of the balcony. Her eyes were looking ahead too, staring somewhere distant, a thousand thoughts likely running through her head.

Somewhere, far in the distance, there was a gaping, spiraling hole in the sky. There had been talk of smaller tears in southern Orlais, but nothing so dreadful so far north in Ghislain. Orlais continued as it always had here, even despite the raging civil war that raged all around them. And here they stood, mages still loyal to the ideals of a Chantry that had been falling to pieces before one spectacular shattering explosion deep in the Frostback Mountains.

Vivienne had thrown their lot in with this fledgling Inquisition. Taesas knew her to be incredibly clever and shrewd, but he couldn't decide whether her actions tonight were the next carefully plotted move in her grand design or an act of desperation. Her silence made him uneasy. Madam de Fer, the Iron Lady, did not fear and did not falter, or so the court declared.

"So what kind of man is this Trevelyan?" Taesas said to break the silence.

Vivienne didn't move, her gaze still unfocused far, far away from Ghislain. "I honestly don't know, dear" Vivienne said.

"But I do know the type of man I intend to make of him."


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

The mountains were too damn cold.

The air was cold to the point of being cruel, Vell thought. What kind of Maker would craft a world where the air could be so chill to numb your hands to the point that they burned? Why would anyone choose to live in a place like this? And why would some new army trying to save the world set their base of operations so far up the ass of a mountain?

But that couldn't be right, either. The inside of someone's ass would at least be warm and protected from the wind, Vell thought. Also smelly. She couldn't tell if the path winding up to Haven smelled, because she had lost feeling in her nose. Ferelden _did_ actually have a subtle wet-dog note as Orlesians often quipped. Also garbage. And dead things and smoke. But she suspected the rot smell had more to do with lingering patches of Blight and destruction from the Breach.

Redcliffe hadn't exactly been some summer home along the Antivan coast, but at least in the valley her nipples weren't stiff to the point of being painful. She hadn't brought a coat. Aside from the inconvenience of having to kill her way out of White Spire, it was summer when she left Orlais. Summer was a season when it was supposed to be sunny and warm. She didn't know what Maker-damned season this was in Ferelden, but it was somewhere between winter and suicide.

The Fereldans wore thick, fur-lined boots. The dainty, Orlesian slippers she had stolen from a dead merchant's cart that was burning alongside the road did less than nothing to keep out the cold of the snow. She would have liked to sucker punch one of the Fereldans and swipe his boots, but there hadn't really be an opportunity trudging in a column of her peers up the sloping mountain path.

Vell couldn't feel the tips of her ears anymore and she had lost feeling in her cheeks and lips about an hour ago. She snorted to herself at the thought that maybe if she lost the pointed tips of her ears to frostbite, people might mistake her for a human. Still probably not, though. She was too tall and lanky to pass as a human woman, her hips so straight and narrow that her body reminded her more of a prepubescent boy than it did a grown woman.

The Maker surely was an evil prick. Not only had he made her an elf _and_ and a mage, but he didn't even give her a pair of tits. That might have at least provided some amusement while drudging her way through the misery she called life. But no, she was forced to walk around with a staff on her back, two pointy ears on the sides of her head and a chest that was as flat as a board.

The Lady Seeker kept looking over her shoulder every two minutes, checking the column of mages plodding up the path behind her and the Herald with his fantastic, glowing palm. Of all the men Vell knew, this Herald was the only one who used hand for something other than self-gratification.

The Seeker turned her head again, glaring down the line before turning her gaze back in front of her. What was she expecting to see? Mages tying each other down to stone slabs and committing blood sacrifices to appease some demons? Vell was from Val Royeaux, not some backwater Chasind village deep in the savage wilds. Although the way Orlesians tore each other apart sometimes, perhaps the Chasind were the more civilized.

"If she fucking looks back here one more time," Vell growled under her breath to no one in particular, but loud enough that any of the other mages around her was sure to hear her.

"Watch your tongue," came the harsh, hushed admonishment next to her. Grand Enchanter Fiona was at her side. Vell hadn't seen her approach. In fact, she hadn't seen much of her since Redcliffe at all. And, of course, here Fiona was at the worst possible time. Fiona was the one mage whose attention she _didn't_ want to catch. "And be glad we are not making this trek in chains."

She was right, of course.

Vell tossed her head to the side, flipping the long bang of hair that had blown across her right eye back in its place. Her once-coal-black hair was now a mismatched rainbow of colors. After her escape from the Circle, she had stolen dyes from a merchant who was hawking textiles in Lydes and roughly dragged them in long, colorful streaks through her short hair. Her hair did look like shit now, she knew. She had smeared the red over most of the right side of her head. The yellow was too strong and had bleached the part on the left side of her head where she pushed all of her hair right. But she was enjoying the thin slashes of green, indigo and purple that wrapped around her left ear and behind her head.

She didn't really care how it looked. The point was that she had been able to do it. If she had attempted such desecration of her head in the Circle, her teachers would have had her sent to have her head shaved bald until she could learn how to properly wear her hair again.

The Grand Enchanter's souring presence made Vell cross her arms over her chest and stick her hands deep into her armpits to try to keep them from going numb too. "I'm sorry, Grand Enchanter," Vell quickly and half-heartedly replied.

The Grand Enchanter was probably equally miserable, although she hid it better. Her dark hair was frazzled at the ends and her green eyes looked drawn and heavy. She at least had gotten a heavier robe like the Fereldan mages wore, with fur-lined cuffs and what looked like some padding to it.

When Fiona fell into step next to Vell, she regretted the bad luck. She didn't hate Fiona so much as she just strongly disliked what the Grand Enchanter was.

Fiona had done a good job rallying the mages Thedas-wide to realize it was time to stop taking the shit the Chantry shoving down their throats every day. It had taken one exploding Chantry, one bloody brawl in White Spire and one Tranquil knifed to death in the Circle, but it had been enough. That part was all fine and good.

And they were also both mages, both elves and both Orlesian, true. But Fiona was _Orlesian_ , while Vell was just Orlesian by virtue of having grown up within the Empire's stuck-up borders. There were _Orlesians_ who wore masks and danced in frilly dresses, said cryptic shit that didn't mean what they were actually saying and played some stupid "Game" that didn't have any rules or winners, from what she could gather. Then there were Orlesians who kind of sat below all the porcelain, head-in-the-clouds people and wondered what the fuck was going on up there and why. Vell was certainly of the latter.

Vell had to admit to herself she didn't know anything of the Grand Enchanter's past, but she would wager heavily that it didn't involve scraping through the slums of Val Royeaux, picking pockets just to stay alive. Fiona probably didn't have a father who slaved on the docks at day and a mother who plied a very different type of trade on the docks at night. She probably didn't have parents that took their meager wages and instead of buying food or clothes, use it to buy Dust they'd snort up in a frenzy and then sit around the house with glassy, dazed eyes while their four children were left to run around the gutters finding their own meals.

Fiona probably grew up in some noble's house. Sure, she was probably raised as a servant, but Vell would bet that she had a bed and clothes and food and parents who loved her. She probably spent her childhood pilfering cakes and cookies out of the kitchen for fun, not because if she didn't pinch something she wouldn't eat all day. She was probably an investment, a little pointy-eared girl who would grow up and become a valuable servant just like her mother. She had probably romped around the garden with the little girls of the manor and carried some stuck up lady-in-waiting's handbag as she went shopping at the market looking at dresses and shoes and jewelry and stupid shit like that.

Being a mage was much better than being an urchin, Vell had thought when she first arrived at the Circle as a child. That had eventually degraded to thinking that being a mage was only slightly better than being an urchin. After a few years, she often wondered if getting knifed in a back alley in her teenage years might not have been a better alternative.

All but one of the kids she had run with in the alleys were either dead, jails or otherwise missing from the streets. She knew. She had looked and asked. Only Eleran was still around and he was missing a hand. He said he lost it in "the war," but he had always been a filthy liar and she knew he had crossed someone with a lot more money and power than him in the slums and had paid the price for it.

Now, Vell was supposedly free, but she didn't feel any less caged than she had in the Circle. And it was fucking cold now, too. She remembered she had Fiona to thank for that.

Fiona had plunged the mages into a war, which was, of course, fine. Vell had been itching for the fight since she became a teenager, waiting to stick her flaming fist right up the Templars' collective asses. She had recently gotten to do that, several times, figuratively, though she was still waiting for the right opportunity to do it literally, too. She wore six earrings in her left ear now, one for each Templar she had killed. She collected the earrings wherever she could, stealing them from others, collecting them off dead bodies in the burned out towns, she had even used money to _buy_ one. She jammed the small metals pins of each one through her ear, ignoring the pain by remembering the greater look of agony on the Templar's faces as she ended their lives.

The problem with Fiona was that, like most _Orlesians_ , she was great at talking. Then when the shit started flowing all over the streets it quickly became apparent that she wasn't so good for much else but talking. It was nice to rally all the mages to rise up and fight for their freedom. But then there was the realization that there were two or more Templars for every mage. Then the Templars went off-leash due to Lambert, which meant the bulky, sword-wielding pricks didn't have to follow any rules about proper treatment of mages. And then, on top of that, walking into a town with a staff on your back was likely a good way to get the average, bigot townsfolk to come out of their pathetic hovels with shovels and pitchforks and stones.

All of that got topped off with the realization that they hadn't even got _all_ the mages. The Loyalists didn't break and join with them. And then there were plenty of Isolationists who just threw away their staves and ran off to the furthest town or forest that they could find, pretending that they weren't even mages any more.

So as the rebels - as everyone deemed them - were spectacularly getting decimated in the war, Fiona, being _Orlesian_ , decided that they need a powerful ally. And since _Orlesians_ didn't know anything except how to kiss the asses of other nobles, she sold the entire crew into slavery with Tevinter. But not just Tevinter, no, some crazy fucking Tevinter cult bent on transcending the normal world into some kind of godhood. Vell would have thought that anyone would recognize that the notion of obtaining godhood was a psychotic idea, but apparently Fiona's head was so far up the clouds she missed that one.

"This is not what I had intended," Fiona continued as she walked next to Vell, their feet trudging up the sharply sloping path zig-zagging into the mountains. "But I think this opportunity is a blessing from the Maker, one that we do not deserve."

"Better than the alternative," Vell said, pulling her hands out from under her armpits, rubbing them together and blowing what little hot breath she had left into them. She quickly stuck them back under her arms.

Vell wished Adrian was here. She led the Libertarians at White Spire, and while she was still pretty far up there as far as being _Orlesian_ , she at least had her head grounded some of the time. And she was constantly pissed about something. She wouldn't be walking here claiming miracles and trying to put a smiley spin on everything. She'd probably be shooting fire at the snowdrifts just to try to claim vengeance against the bitter cold. Vell smiled a little bit at the thought of building a snowman when they arrived at Haven, just so she could then blow its head off with a fireball. That could count as "training," couldn't it?

Cassandra turned her head again, looking down the column and the smile washed off Vell's face as she shot daggers back up toward the Seeker. The Right Hand of the Divine wouldn't notice her. But she did it anyway.

Fiona saw the glaring. "The Herald told me that many of his retinue were not happy that he allowed us to keep our freedom," she said, her eyes looking up at Trevelyan, who was walking just before Cassandra but had not looked back once. The large, two-handed sword was across his back. He wasn't a mage and had no reason to trust or believe in them, but he did, for some reason. "The Seeker most of all. Commander Cullen was also not pleased. So we should be grateful that Trevelyan followed his heart and not the guidance of his closest advisers."

Vell didn't want to get into it, but she couldn't help herself. That was her way. "We've traded one slave-owner for the next." She deliberately used the term. Vell had no illusions that, despite being a mage, being an elf in Tevinter would have made it so she never really gained any standing, even as the Venatori had promised they would after a long, hard, indentured term under the magisters. Vell had pointy ears. Having pointy ears in Tevinter meant you were a slave. Simple as that.

"As I said, it is not what I intended," Fiona said sharply. She was high in the sky, but the Grand Enchanter could have a fire and a fierceness when she needed. Vell had to remember that she was a Grey Warden, once. And, from the stories, used to be quite a bitch too. Vell would have liked her much more if she was still a bitch now. "But I think now we are on the right side of things. With the Inquisition, we can help close this Breach and fight off the demons that plague this world. While now the people despise us, maybe after this they will at least acknowledge that it was our powers that helped set things right again."

Vell snorted. "Except for the part about mages blowing up that Chantry in Kirkwall. And blowing up the Temple of Sacred Ashes and killing the Divine."

Fiona's eyes did grow fiercer now. "There is no proof that it was a mage who is responsible for the Breach."

Vell shrugged. "Looks like magic. Smells like magic. Mages are going to get blamed. Doesn't matter who actually did it."

Fiona's lips twisted and then the Grand Enchanter turned her gaze forward. Vell smiled inwardly at that. Fiona wanted to disagree, but knew she couldn't.

And the _Orlesians_ always thought they're so damn smart.


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

The gilded gates of Marquis Brevere's villa swung open without a noise.

The servants bowed their heads, averting their gaze to their feet as they had been taught to do when treating the lord's guests. Taesas strode past them without a word or a glance, stepping up the marbled lane toward the front entrance of the home. The Marquis protected part of Orlais' northern border with Nevarra, but this particular property was a residence of pleasure, not of duty. The villa was tucked well off the main road, snaking up a wooded path into a secluded stretch of land that was bathed in golden sunlight.

The villa overlooked a modest vineyard, also owned by the Marquis, of course. The white stone wall that surrounded the property was decorative instead of defensible. The villa had just a small stable within the gate, home to a few of the lord's horses with few empty stalls for visitors. Brevere did not entertain many here, least of all his lady wife. Rumor around the court was that he had told her she would never step foot inside. And to Tae's knowledge, she never had.

Taesas swung down from his horse, a snowy white Ghislain courser he had taken straight from the Duke's personal stable. A servant quickly stepped forward the grab the reins and lead the well-trained beast to the stable.

The stone walls and red-clay tiled roof were all in pristine condition here. There were songbirds, birds not native to these parts of Orlais and obviously imported, singing in the expertly manicured trees and hedges. The air smelled of fragrant incense that was being burned somewhere on the grounds, filling the entire compound with a sweet, pleasant air. The entire complex was a lesson in Orlesian opulence, as well as Orlesian discretion. Despite it's glamor, this was a small holding, one meant to be kept far away from prying eyes and listening ears.

The villa was so far away, that as the front door opened and Marquis Brevere stepped out to meet his guest, he did so without his mask.

The marquis was aging, closing in on his fiftieth year. His golden hair was thinning in the middle, but still delicately curled along the sides and in the back. The mustache and trimmed beard were showing signs of grey and there were wrinkles in his face that not even the weight that rounded his face and smoothed his features could hide any longer. His second chin had grown larger since Taesas last saw him and he was breathing heavily already despite just descending the few small steps.

The marquis was very short, shorter even than Taesas, and quite round. His stomach bulged over the golden and jeweled belt that was tightly cinched at his expansive waist, his legs quickly moving like twigs in white hose underneath the bulk of him, all of that balanced precariously atop small feet. The ivory-accented walking stick in his right hand moved effortlessly alongside him despite his labored steps. His eyes were emerald and alight with joy as he moved to greet his guest.

"Enchanter Taesas!" the marquis delighted between labored breaths. "I am so glad you could make it. I was worried you would not be able to divert from Ghislain. I am honored, as always, to host you."

The marquis grabbed Taesas' hand, squeezing it firmly between both of his hands, the walking stick deftly tucked under his right arm in one motion. The marquis was a man who had practiced every word and every movement for all his life. Even here, in the privacy of his pleasure house, the marquis could not completely shut off the Game.

"No, Marquis Brevere. It is I who am honored, as always, for your gracious invitation." Taesas said, lifting the Marquis' hand and planting a gentle kiss upon the large, golden signet ring upon his right hand. The kiss made the marquis shiver and jiggle with delight. Brevere inhaled sharply, his cheeks becoming flush.

"Maker, it is unseasonably warm today," the marquis declared, fanning himself with a hand. While it was a sunny, summer day, it was actually slightly cool for the season, Taesas thought. But it was not the sun that had warmed the marquis, despite the fact that he wore long sleeves and long hose in heavy, rich fabrics.

"Quite," Taesas lied. "Uncomfortable almost to the point of being unbearable." He waved his hands before him, a small plume of frosty air springing into being in his palm, a ball of cold air and soft snow that he conjured between his two hands. He ran his hands over the ball of magic as if if shaping clay into a sphere, then gave it a gentle toss up into the air. The white ball floated upward a few feet above their heads before it broke apart, sending a gentle flurry of snow over their heads.

The marquis smiled widely, his eyes alight with wonder as he held out his hand to catch a few of the snowflakes in his palm. "Oh my," Brevere said with a slight shiver at the burst of cool air. "I will forever be mesmerized by your talents and abilities, Enchanter."

They were simple parlor tricks, meant only to amuse. The spells were a waste of good mana. But, like most of the nobility, the marquis was not interested in Taesas' true talents, only the simple spells meant to delight and entertain. The magic was pandering, but pandering was what Taesas had learned to do best among the court. "Please, Marquis Brevere, there is no need for such formality with me. If I'm not mistaken, we're quite alone here, yes? I am humbly at your service and you may call me Tae."

The marquis flushed again at such informality, a large snowflake falling just down upon the tip of his nose, causing him to chuckle. His face looked as if he were remembering being five years old again, playing outside in the snow. "Only if you agree to address me as Antone."

"Of course, Antone," Taesas said with a respectful dip of his chin. He lifted his hand toward the door. "Shall we?"

The marquis snapped to attention, his large, puppy-dog eyes blinking as if he suddenly remembered something very important. "Oh yes, of course, of course! Please, I wanted to show you the latest improvement to my humble home." Brevere began to scurry forward on his tiny legs and Taesas fell into step beside him, matching his speed and gait.

"Perhaps humble in spirit, Antone, but your villa is the epitome of tasteful wealth and style," Taesas said. There was never too much flattery for the marquis, even compared to many of the other nobles who swallowed the lavish praise greedily. There, indeed, was nothing humble about this home.

"Oh, you are always a pure delight, Enchanter… I mean, Tae."

The central courtyard of the villa was their destination and it had changed dramatically since Taesas' last visit. Where once the courtyard had been filled with perfect rose bushes and a large and expertly sculpted statue of Emperor Drakon as a centerpiece, all of it had been removed. The courtyard was now the site of a very large pool, the water crystal clear and rippling in the sun. The stone around and inside it was all black and white marble, the edges ringed in gold.

Some smaller statues had been put at each of the corners of the large, rectangular pool, very tasteful busts of females nudes. Each stood in a different pose, each clearly sculpted by a different master artist.

But Taesas was honestly impressed by the magnificent pool due to its absolute impractibility. The villa rested atop a hill and there were no nearby sources of easily accessible water in the area that he was aware of. The only way to fill such a pool would be to carry many buckets or barrels in, but even then after time the water would dirty and need to be replaced. Many nobles attempted large pools in their chateaus and many had found them to be more of a source of embarrassment when the water grew cloudy or, worse, began to host mold or algae.

"It is really quite marvelous, isn't it?" Brevere said proudly. Taesas didn't think he was gawking, but perhaps he was viewing it too wide-eyed. The marquis was an expert in the Game and would pick up even the subtlest of body movements. "I only recently found out that there is a freshwater spring that runs very close to the surface. I had met this quite interesting dwarf at a recent fete in Val Royeaux, Doran Baeleric, whose family had been among the best builders and engineers in Orzammar before some falling out with the Assembly that forced them topside. You know how the dwarves are, their politics are even more cutthroat than the Empire, I think sometimes."

Taesas smiled, as was expected at the marquis' witty observation. He did not know as much of dwarven society as he should, but he suspected that no one, not even the ageless families of Orzammar, played the Game quite like Orlais.

"I brought him here and asked his opinion on the matter," Brevere continued. "Before the sun set he had several pages of rather genius drawings on how not only to build the pool, but how to use the natural pressure of the spring to feed the water in without any effort at all. And further that, he devised this brilliant mechanism to drain and recirculate the water so that it never spoils. Would you believe me if I told you I haven't needed to have this cleaned since it was first complete two months ago?"

It was rather impressive. Taesas wondered how much good gold was put into the dwarf's hands for his labors. The price was no doubt incredible.

"It is remarkable, Antone."

The marquis lifted his hand, beckoning Taesas to the pool. "Please, Tae, you must try it out."

And so they quickly came to the purpose of his visit. Taesas had not known what, but he had expected that there would be something, made as a polite and proper request to veil its true nature as a demand. This was not an offer the elf would be able to turn down. The expectations were clearly stated in the marquis' voice. Whatever he had paid the Circle to secure the visit, this was the purpose the marquis had in mind.

"I would be honored," Taesas acquiesced and began to disrobe.

He carefully handed his staff to the marquis and then began to unbutton the long robe he wore, carefully working each of the golden buttons between his fingers. After each loop, he carefully pulled the cloth open wider and wider, allowing his muscled chest to slowly expose from underneath as slowly and steadily as a sunrise. He pulled his arms from the sleeves as the top was unfurled down to his navel and then let the garment slide down his waist and legs. Taesas stepped out of the garment, picking it up and quickly folding it, placing it carefully near the edge of the pool.

The marquis was quivering with anticipation, his eyes quickly darting over Taesas' nude, muscled form. While most mages only focused on strengthening the mind, Taesas took equal care to exercise his body. He had petitioned and been granted leave to undergo physical training with the Templars of the tower. He had engaged in the martial arts, hand-to-hand combat as well as some light arms and armor. The Templars trained with sword and shield and he had modified their training to accommodate shield and staff. He had studied some of the histories of both the Knight Enchanters of the Circle and the Arcane Warriors of ancient Arlathan as a guide.

The years of physical training with the Templars had toned his physique as much as any elf could. He lacked the bulk and strength of an equally-trained man, but his muscles had obtained similar definition and power. What he lacked in the brute strength of a human, he could supplement with the grace and fluidity of the elves and the power of his magic. Taesas was unlike any other mage in the tower in that respect.

It was that chiseled form and strength of body that had made Taesas so desirable among the nobility. While he often wore robes and other garb befitting a mage of the Circle of Montsimmard, many at the court knew of the body that lie beneath it and desired it. The chase and the prize at the end were the very essence of the Game. Many nobles of the court made the necessary, careful steps and bandied the correct influence to claim it.

Marquis Brevere was no different in that respect. Taesas stepped forward, down the wide steps into the pool. The marquis carefully placed the staff down and scurried to a padded chaise at the poolside as he lay on his side to observe the spectacle before him.

The water was surprisingly warm as Taesas submerged himself, rolling onto his back and slowly pushing with his arms and legs, his body floating atop the surface. The sun sparkled atop the water, reflecting bright golden light off each ripple as he swam away from the steps. The marquis was quietly observing, his fingers pressed over his lips, perhaps to keep his jaw from falling wide open.

Taesas rolled in the water, turning over his strong shoulders and back toward the marquis as he took several long, slow, freestyle strokes across the pool until he reached the far end. He grabbed the edge before planting his foot against the wall and pushing off to retrace his route in a backstroke, keeping his chest and hips up as close to the water's surface as he could.

The marquis watched silently, fanning himself in the heat as Taesas whizzed around the pool in various strokes and speeds, always mindful of how his body displayed in the water. The marquis did not care if Taesas enjoyed the pool or the swimming. He only cared about the show.

"The pool is magnificent, Antone," Taesas said as he tired of the farce after many minutes, slowly treading his way toward the wall where the marquis sat. He placed his arms atop the deck, tightening his shoulders as he pulled himself slightly out of the water.

"I'm glad you like it," Brevere said, motioning Taesas toward the stairs.

Instead, he planted his palms on the deck and pushed himself up, letting his chest and arms flex as he lifted himself out of the pool, letting the water wick off his body. He lifted his left hand, balancing on his right arm as he quickly turned his back the marquis, planting his rear upon the edge of the wall into a sitting position. Taesas arched his back slightly and shook his head to try to toss some of the water from his hair before he pulled his legs out of the water, standing.

He lifted his arms, running his fingers back through his long, dark hair and shaking more water out of it as he stood nude before the marquis. Brevere's breath was caught in his throat, his eyes wide and unblinking. Taesas smiled, just slightly to himself at seeing the marquis so disarmed, before Brevere snapped to attention, grabbing a towel. "Please, sit," Brevere offered, standing up off the chaise.

Taesas did as he was bid, taking a seat on the long chair as the marquis began to softly pat the towel across his wet body, drying him. His hands were so timid, almost afraid to touch at each time he brought the towel down, softly patting and rubbing the cloth against the elf's skin.

"I have recently negotiated a new lyrium contract with the dwarves in Orzammar," Brevere said as he continued to dry Taesas. "The price has increased slightly, but I was able to negotiate nearly double the supply they had previously been shipping."

"It sounds like another deal well done," Taesas said. The marquis's fingertips brushed lightly across his shoulder before he resumed with the towel, patting down Taesas' back.

"I will be sending it all to the Circle, free of charge," Brevere said, the towel wrapping around as the marquis placed his hands just above Taesas' hips. The marquis bent low, taking a quiet, but not unnoticeable, inhale to draw in the elf's scent.

The news was quite unexpected, Taesas thought. Lyrium was a very pricey venture and for the marquis to simply give it away to the Circle would be ludicrous. The notion struck Taesas the same way it might have if the marquis said he was going to be investing heavily in the alienage in Val Royeaux. "That's incredibly generous, Antone, but surely you cannot be serious."

The marquis chuckled as he waddled around to the other side of the chair, to Taesas' front. He sat down on the chaise next to the elf and began to pat his chest dry with the towel. Taesas leaned back slightly, placing his hands behind him to push his chest outward for the marquis. "I have more gold than I know what to do with. The cost is no issue," Brevere said. "But I must admit, this 'Breach' they speak of gives me terrible indigestion. Other nobles might dismiss it, but they would be foolish. If there are demons falling out of the sky, we will need fighters. I can think of no better investment than in the Templars and mages who remain loyal to the Chantry."

Taesas wondered how the marquis already knew that the Loyalists would soon be joining the fight. It could have been coincidence, of course, but Marquis Brevere was too well-connected to stumble upon the truth by accident. Perhaps Vivienne had known long before the salon that she would join them to the Inquisition? "Still," Taesas said, opening his legs slightly as the marquis moved to the towel lower to dry his thigh, "It is most generous."

The marquis stopped, letting the towel fall across Taesas' thigh, his hand placed cautiously on top of the fabric. "I cannot bear to think what might happen if this Breach is not stopped soon," the marquis said. "I must admit, I weep at the thought of what might happen to the Maker's most beautiful creatures if nothing is done."

The marquis' hand drifted up, his fingers falling upon Taesas' chest, tracing the lines of his firm pectoral muscles. Brevere moved his hand, Taesas sitting still below his touch, until he rested his palm across the center of the elf's chest, feeling his heartbeat.

Brevere looked up to Taesas, fear, anticipation, permission all running through his eyes as he looked upon the Enchanter. "I would be heartbroken if anything were to happen to you, Tae."

Taesas closed his eyes and slowly inhaled, letting his shoulders relax as he leaned back a bit more onto his arms, pulling his legs slightly more open and shifting his hips toward the marquis in open surrender. Brevere's hand began to move again, his fingers slowly running over the ridges of his abdominals, crossing the equator of his waist until his fingers lightly came to rest around Taesas' manhood. Taesas exhaled slightly, slowly, audibly.

The marquis curled his fingers around, slow strokes up and down. The chaise creaked, the cushions shifting as the marquis moved, his great girth changing as he scooted toward the foot of the chair. The marquis pushed open the mage's legs, Taesas feeling the tension in the cushion as the noble lowered himself, his lips wrapping around the tip of his manhood.

Taesas released another slow breath and a low, pleasured moan. The Circle had sent him here to play a part and he had to act his role. He had done it dozens of times with many different members of the nobility, playing the role they wanted him to play. Taesas served the Circle and the demands of the Circle had always been great.

In his mind, he pictured Vivienne. The First Enchanter slowly peeled away her rich robes, lifting the mask from her face, removing the imposing hennin from atop her head. Her ebony skin was pure and flawless, her immaculate curves and perfectly round breasts. She knelt on the floor before him and took him in her mouth. The First Enchanter would never kneel, he knew, making the fantasy all the more arousing as he dreamed the warmth and wetness of her mouth as she took him, the way her tongue flitted around his stiffness.

She would wrap her hand around the base of his shaft, her other palm pressing against his thigh as she looked up to him. "Take me now, Taesas, darling."

His hands would guide her, laying her down, his fingers brushing across the wetness between her legs, her body quivering in anticipation. He could feel her long, ebony legs in his hands, her knees bent and wrapped around his elbows as he spread her, thrusting deeply. Vivienne would cry out, vocalizations of her pleasure, long denied and never fully embraced.

Her moans growing louder, her sex tightening, hands upon his hips pulling him deeper and faster, thrusting, her sex pulsing, his pleasure building, a tension through his groin, her muscles clenching around him, squeezing his manhood tightly, her screams of delight filling his ears, the ecstasy too much to bear as he exploded.

Taesas groaned, his mouth twisting and his eyes clenching closed as pulse after pulse reverberated through him at the pinnacle of orgasm. His chest heaved, his heart racing and breath coming in short spurts as the blissful agony coursed through him.

His fantasy faded, evaporating quickly as a slight, gagging cough coming from the marquis between his legs reminded him where he really was.


	4. Chapter 4

**Four**

Vell slapped his face.

"Just do it already. It's fucking cold out here," she said.

Her right leg was lifted, the heeled boot planted firmly against the narrow window sill. Her back pressed firmly into the corner where the two walls met. She had lifted her robes up to her waist, exposing herself. This man had been game for the idea of sneaking out of the tavern and giving her the pumping she desired, but he was obviously getting cold feet about the idea.

Vell was feeling warm, but that was the effect of the many glasses of wine and shots of liquor she had downed. Her head was spinning and whatever inhibition she had before was gone. But even still, she could feel the icy mountain air creeping up her bare legs.

The soldier, at least she thought he was a soldier, pursed his lips, clapped his hands and began unlacing the front of his pants. He moved awkwardly, closing in, his manhood poking around and looking for the right spot. Vell knew she wasn't in the ideal position standing like this, but she wasn't going to give this fool her back and she sure as fuck wasn't going to lie down in the snow. If he wanted it as bad as he said he did just minutes before, he could deal with an odd stance.

He slipped inside of her, a profane word slipping out of his mouth. The soldier wasn't nearly as large as some of the mages she had snuck around White Spire with. He had done a lot of talking inside the tavern, but he was showing much less than promised.

He slowly moved back and forth, his jaw gritting tightly as he grunted with each thrust, his hands fumbling over her clothes to grab at her tiny breast.

"Come on," Vell said, frustrated at his pace. "I thought you said you knew how to use that thing? I'm going to fall asleep."

Typically emasculating a man in the middle of sex wasn't the best method to improve his performance, but Vell didn't care about this soldier. She didn't even know his name. He wasn't even that good looking. But he had talked a lot, she had drunk a lot and there was a need for celebration. She was free.

That, and the mages and the Herald of Andraste had _sealed_ the fucking Breach today.

If that wasn't cause to get drunk and sleep around Haven, Vell didn't know what was..

The town was, of course, colder than the foothills had been. Haven was miserable, so any distraction was worthwhile. For the first time in her life, she didn't have Templars breathing down her neck. She could drink a whole bottle of wine just because she wanted to. She could stick her tongue in whoever's mouth she wanted.

The soldier increased his pace after the insult, sliding his arm under Vell's lifted leg and placing his other hand against the wall to brace himself as he thrust harder and deeper. Vell closed her eyes and let slip a quiet moan. She reached forward, grabbing his hair and forcing his head down into her neck. His lips locked on to her as he slammed his hips forward, burying himself as far as he could go inside her.

She pressed her boot harder into the windowsill, tightening the muscles in her legs and hips, increasing the tension throughout her groin. "Yes," she moaned, her fingers gripping and pulling on his greasy, black curls. "Just like that. Don't stop."

The soldier groaned, his head gave a jerk and shudder and his hips stopped suddenly. His breath was heavy, heaving as he began to withdraw.

"You've got to be kidding me," Vell groaned, banging her head lightly back against the wall. She gave him a hard shove to his chest with both hands and he nearly tripped over his pants, which were still pulled down around his thighs. "That's it? That's _it?"_

The soldier was lacing up his pants. She couldn't tell if he looked stunned, embarrassed or proud of himself. His face just looked stupid as he fumbled with the strings. Vell dropped her leg, slightly stiff now, from the windowsill and let the robe fall back over her legs.

"Take that pathetic prick of yours and get the fuck out of here!" Vell shouted, letting fire flare to her first and sending the soldier scurrying away, still trying to adjust his pants as he wobbled away.

She let the fire at her hand extinguish and shook her right leg, trying to work the stiffness out of her thigh muscle. That wouldn't do. That wouldn't do at all. The night was still young. She could try again. Vell needed more wine.

"I guess that one didn't tickle the bits the right way, huh?"

Vell looked up as the other elf came around the corner of the building. Her blonde hair was cut rough and crooked, the black kerchief around her neck, her red dress roughly patched, the mismatched yellow plaidweave pants she wore looking just as threadbare. She was a regular in the tavern. Owned the place, or so some said.

"You'd think he never used the thing before," Vell said, crossing her arms over her chest and slumping back against the wall.

The elf chuckled. "Probably hasn't. This Inquisition is made up of half stuffy Chantry choir boys and the other half dumb shites to stupid too realize we're getting into a friggin' war," she said. She lifted her hand, in it a half bottle of bourbon. She shook the green bottle a little, offering, the liquor sloshing around in it.

Vell took it and gulped down a large swig, the bourbon fiery down her throat before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and passing it back. The elf - was her name Sera? - had been drinking just as hard as anyone in the tavern, cursing much louder than anyone else and chipping in jokes so dirty they sent some people running out with sour looks on their face.

"That's why I'm enjoying tonight, before we're all dead tomorrow," Vell said.

"Hope we got more than one more night before we're all dead," the blonde elf said. "I was just starting to have fun." She tipped the bottle to her lips swallowing two large gulps before pulling the glass down and blasting a loud belch.

"But the Herald sealed the Breach," the blonde elf said as she passed the bottle back. "So I guess maybe it's all over now. Everybody pack up and go home, yeah?

"Hope not," Vell said. "Outside of the cold, this is the most fun I've had in years." She tipped the bottle and took another gulp, spitting as she struggled to force it down. The fire was cutting right down her throat and she could feel her stomach twisting in protest.

Vell bent over and coughed, spitting again to try to rinse the bourbon off her tongue before she spewed. Everything felt like it was spinning.

Then she heard shouting. And bells ringing. So many bells. Loud bells splitting her head open. Vell tried to straighten back up, wobbling a bit on her feet.

There was a man's shout that boomed over the din of bells and shouting, a Commander's battle voice carrying over the noise. "Forces approaching! To arms!"

"Shite," the blonde elf said as she stepped away from the tavern, looking up the mountainside at the blinking lights of torches in the hands of soldiers cresting the hills.

When Vell had said they'd all be dead by tomorrow, she hadn't actually considered the possibility that they would actually be dead by morning. She could see the bobbing lights too, hundreds of soldiers coming over the mountainside. Nobody would march an army over the mountain - not up the road - in the middle of the night in the bitter cold just to come have tea with the Inquisition.

Her stomach felt ill and Vell jammed her fingers down her throat, gagging, coughing as she elicited the liquor up her throat. She turned her head, a forceful wave of vomit spewing between her lips into a small shrub. All of that wine and liquor burned twice as bad as it came back up, acid forcing its way through her nose as the brownish-red vomit came pouring out.

As she forced the last bit out, Vell coughed, her eyes watering and her nose burning as she wiped the remaining chunks, bile and spit from her lips. She stood back up, taking a deep breath and sniffing to try to stifle the burning. Her head was pounding from the stress of forcing liquid through it, but her stomach at least felt somewhat settled. She scooped some snow into her hand and stuffed it into her mouth to cleanse her palate.

"There," she said, folding the snow into her other cheek as the icy coldness numbed her tongue. "Much better."

Vell sprinted toward the front gate, passing several of the townsfolk and camp followers who were heading for cover in any of the buildings and the Chantry. Soldiers caught in the middle of their revery were quickly strapping on armor and sword belts, grabbing shields. Mages were pouring out too, staves in their hands as they marshaled toward the gates.

Vell fell in with the rest of the mages, faces she didn't even recognize as they formed lines near the gate. Just under the archway, Trevelyan stood with the Seeker and Commander Cullen, each of them exchanging quick words as they stared up the mountainside. Trevelyan pulled his blade and headed off down the path, the Seeker in tow behind him.

The Commander pulled his sword and turned back to the gathering lines of soldiers and mages.

"Mages! You…" he hesitated as he looked at the rows of robe-wearing, staff-carrying men and elves. He was a Templar, through and through, so the next words out of his mouth must have felt like someone kicking him in the balls. "You have sanction to engage them! That is Samson. He will not make it easy.

"Inquisition! With the Herald! For your lives! For all of us!" The Commander turned toward the slopes, lifting his sword high into the air, pointing to the approaching army. As they grew closer, Vell could see it was an army of Templars, although they appeared different, their bodies covered in red, glowing crystals. Some appeared misshapen, hardly human, if she could see from that distance. Her vision was slightly blurred, but aside from the flaming swords of Andraste on their armor and shields, she might have thought it was an army of monsters.

The army commanders began to break the soldiers off into groups, shouting orders, pointing and directing them toward different rendezvous points around Haven's weak palisade. Grand Enchanter Fiona was before them now - Vell hadn't noticed her before - barking orders.

"These are Templars, so you know what to expect," Fiona was saying. "Support the soldiers. Engage the enemy as they grow close, but do not pursue away from the walls. Whatever happens, don't let them into Haven."

Vell burped quietly to herself, another pulse of hot bile creeping up her throat, though she caught it and swallowed it back down before it grew any worse. Her arms were tingling with the excited pulse of battle to come. She had felt so powerful, so liberated as she threw fire down the narrow corridors of White Spire, burning through the Templars in her bloody, fiery escape from the Circle that had imprisoned her.

She had engaged in a few skirmishes with Templars in Orlais and the Hinterlands, nothing too brutal. But her count of dead Templars had hit a half dozen after the last fight and she was itching to add more to the pile. "Come on," she said to herself, opening herself to the Fade and letting the mana flow into her. She could feel the flames creeping down her fingers, balls of fire forming in her palms.

There were many mages here, all drawing on the same arcane energies that she was having trouble focusing to pull her own mana. As they separated, it should get easier, she knew, but there was plenty of power to go around. The gaping hole in the Veil that was once the Breach had let so much power bleed into the physical world that there would be no shortfall of energy here for any of the mages.

The ether felt so raw and wild, an energy source waiting to be tapped. It was unlike anything Vell had ever felt in the Circle where everything was tested cautiously, done scientifically and under watchful eyes of Templars ready to choke off the connection at the first sign of trouble. Since being freed from the Circle, Vell had probed the limits of what she could really do with magic. The power she had just barely fingered made her giddy.

Some of the mages were breaking off with the groups of soldiers, but Vell made sure to stay still right where she was. If the enemy was coming, most would be coming straight for the gate. And that's exactly where she wanted to be, right in the thick of it all.

"Here they come!" Commander Cullen shouted, lifting his heavy shield at his side and hoisting his sword. "Inquisition! Prepare to engage!"

The Red Templars came sprinting and screaming, armor and swords and shield like normal. But they also had parchment-dry skin stretched tautly across bones, blood-red eyes and glowing crystals jutting from their faces and bodies. Then there were others that were twisted beyond recognition, pale-fleshed monsters with hunchbacks, hands warped into long, bony claws.

Vell cracked her knuckles, leaving her staff across her back and letting the magic flow into her hands. She loved the feel of power as it pulsed through her fingers and palms. She rarely used the staff, preferring not to have to wrap her hands around some rod just because the Circle told her that's what mages were supposed to do. A staff could help an initiate focus, but she found greater harmony with her gift by letting it flow openly into and through her.

She rubbed her palms together, pulling the mana through her and conjuring flame between her palms. She placed the heels of her palms together, thrusting her arms forward and opening her hands like a set of jaws. The red flames rolled into a ball between her fingers. She exhaled slowly, a feeling almost like arousal running through her as she uncorked her power.

"Move!" she shouted as the soldiers in a line before her. They all looked like young, skinny humans with armor that looked too big and too heavy for them to wear. They all wore freshly-forged Inquisition gear. A veteran would be wearing his own stuff.

They turned their heads, spotting the broiling ball of flame and quickly stepped to either side, opening a window between their ranks for her. Her eyes stared down the barrel of her arms, watching as the Templars drew in closer and closer, their ranks closing as they prepared to funnel in through the gates. She wondered if she should start a new tally for these Red Templars. It wouldn't feel right to chalk up all her kills with the regular Templars she had crushed before arriving at Haven.

"Eat this, you fucking Templar pricks!"

The magic erupted like a rocket off her palms, the flaming ball zipping past the Commander and out the gate, crashing into the tightly-packed Templars, shattering in a fiery explosion.

The smile crossed her face as the first few Templars flailed around, burning, trying to extinguish the magical flames that embroiled them. Through the smoke and flames, countless more marched forward over their burned and dying brethren.

"Inquisition!" Cullen shouted, his lion's helm pulled down across his face. "Charge!"

The soldiers lurched forward and while most of the mages hung back, Vell was right behind them, her boots crunching down into the snow, her eyes wild and her tongue nearly flapping out of her mouth like a dog eyeing prey. The Templars and soldiers clashed, many of the poorly-trained Inquisition youngster falling in the first collision.

A black fog rolled off around her, the sickening magic miasmic flowing around her in a ring. She pulled the energy from the Fade, letting it run wild and chaotic inside her as she siphoned out the entropy and spread it around her. None of the teachers in the tower specialized in the school and there were few texts on it. The Circle regarded it as too close to darkspawn and blood magic to be trusted, which is exactly why Vell had latched onto its study. She remembered the look of horror in the Templars as she inflicted them with the black magic as she and others battled their way through the hallways of the White Spire to freedom.

The Red Templar stepped over the body of the dead soldier and raised his blade to strike. Vell ran forward, her left hand swiping sideways to disorient and stagger him, her right hand pushing a weakening spell into in that caused his arms to drop and the sword to fall from his crippled fingers. By the time she was on top of him, she already had a ball of flame in her left hand again, which she pushed into his chin and let it fly forward, melting the steel helmet and everything inside it in one fierce blast.

Another rushed forward and she quickly eyed his head, forcing the black magic into his skull, pressing the mana down like a bludgeon shattering his resistance. The Templar grabbed the sides of his head, his mind paralyzed with an imagined horror. She moved so fluid, her fingers tracing the pattern of a hex to shatter his resistance as she prepped another fireball, pushing the flames into his gut and letting the ball of flame shatter and explode through his abdomen separating his top from his bottom.

She had been running the entire time, outpacing the rest of the soldiers and she stopped, digging her heel into the ground and lifting her palms out in front of her, firing blast after blast of fire forward one after another, moving her wrists just slightly, her drunken eyes darting from side to side, tracking and attacking each new Templar as it came up the hill. Some were too slow to avoid, Vell tickled with joy as others spilled to either side to get out of the path of the fire. The charred and smoking bodies fell before her, blackened corpses dropping into the snow, steaming as they made contact.

Vell doused the flame, drawing in more and more energy, letting the power of the Fade roll through her as she loosely formed the spell. She looked ahead, eyeing the ridgeline and pointed with the index finger of her left hand, watching as flames erupted up from the ground as she painted a wall of fire across the field to choke their advance.

She only realized then that she was laughing, a loud cackling as she spilled her powers onto the battlefield. This was the type of reckless power and destruction the Circle had preached against. They had advised careful and cautious practice, supervised and safe. Magic was meant to serve. Mages, if ever needed for war, were there to help and support and follow orders.

But as Vell belched flame against her enemies, she knew all those lessons to be false. Magic was a gift, not a curse. It was a godly power that coursed through her, she rained death out of her fingertips, even against Templars who were trained specifically to kill her kind. She had no intention of using her gifts to terrorize those who didn't deserve it, but upon her enemies, there was no need for caution or restraint.

There was a great whoosh, a stone from one of Haven's trebuchets flying up and over the battlefield toward the mountain. The giant stone hit the mountainside, rocks and snow sliding down the slope and burying a chunk of the approaching force in an avalanche.

Her eyes were wide with excitement watching the snow bury their enemy alive, following the glorious avalanche.

"Haha!" Vell laughed as she eyed down another charging Templar as she weakened his legs, the warrior falling as she pushed up fire from underground to blast him high into the air before his chest could touch the ground. "Is that it? Is that the best you can do?"

In answer, there was a roar, a screech and a giant, black shadow gliding overhead. She turned her head - that couldn't be a dragon, right - only to watch the great winged beast spewing red, crackling energy down upon the trebuchets and the outer wall of Haven. The dragon beat its wings, the force of air slamming down on the soldiers in the field as it moved toward her, its maw alight with red energy.

" _Oh shit,"_ she thought as she dove forward, diving underneath the magical breath that burned in a line right through the area she had occupied just second before. She could feel the cold bite of snow between her fingers as she pushed down to jump back to her feet.

"Fall back! Fall back!"

Vell couldn't really place the shouting, her ears were ringing from the roar of the dragon as it swooped down over her. Her robes were wet as she got back to her feet, looking around as the Inquisition soldiers flooded back toward Haven's walls.

"Come on, there's no time to waste!" It was Grand Enchanter Fiona, near her, the mage's golden staff drawn and swirling with light around the head. The Grand Enchanter was splattered with blood, but she didn't look hurt. She stood in the middle of a ring of bodies splayed out around her. "Hurry!"

Vell looked up into the sky, the dark wings beating and the dragon banking and turning to make a return over Haven. While she was confident in her abilities, she wasn't _that_ confident. Vell started running back toward the gates, all of the Inquisition retreating as horns blew out warning tones. Fiona was behind her, ushering others back toward the gates as Vell approached the wooden walls of the town.

"Move! Move! Fall back to the Chantry!" Commander Cullen was shouting, his bloody sword in hand as he waved everyone inside. His eyes were looking down the path toward the trebuchets where the Herald had gone.

As she came back inside the gate, it was only then that she realized Haven was burning. While they had engaged the Red Templars in front of the walls, the town must have been surrounded on all sides. The palisade had been breached and soldiers had spilled inside, crossing blades with Inquisition forces and indiscriminately killing the townsfolk and camp followers who could not fight.

She instinctively ducked as she heard the whoosh and felt the shadow creep over her again as the dragon swooped across the town again. She could feel a spike of fear in her chest, her blood running cold and her body tightening up like a cornered animal. She swallowed, panting, as her eyes darted around the town. The Chantry was on the far end and there was plenty of bloodshed between her and her destination.

She turned over her palms, fire blooming in each as she bolted up the path. There were bodies of women and children littering the path, dead Red Templars, Inquisition soldiers and mages too clogging the walkway. She hurdled a dead elf and his wooden staff and came before a soldier battling off a Red Templar who was slashing ribbons into his armor. The young soldier lifted his shield and caught another strike, his sword wobbling in a weak retaliatory strike as the Templar pressed and cut another chunk out his pauldron.

Vell closed her left hand into a fist, extinguishing the fire and quickly flooding that hand with entropic energy. "Templar!" she shouted to get its attention, just long enough as she hurled the black ball forward, the magic paralyzing the Templar just for a second. The young soldier hit it with his sword, the steel blade digging into the armor but not deep enough to be fatal.

"Move!" Vell shouted, hoping the kid was smart enough to get out of the way as she threw the fireball in her right hand, crumpling the Templar to the ground in a molten heap. She came up next to the soldier, a young man with strawberry-blonde, curly hair and shoved him in the back. "Go! Go! Get the hell out of here!"

He snapped back, nearly stumbling over his feet as he ran toward the Chantry.

There were more and more Red Templars flooding over the walls and through the breaches in the palisade. Vell quickly looked as soldiers who were still fighting, trying to cover their retreat were slowly being overwhelmed. She threw a hex out in the direction of one fighter fending off a pair of foot soldiers with a two-handed blade before he cut one down and then turned on his heel and bolted back toward the Chantry.

Haven was lost.

Vell backpedaled, her heel hitting a body behind her, another mage, as she looked up at the dragon making another loop over the frozen lake. As it turned its gaze toward the town, she turned, put her head down and sprinted back toward the church. The Chantry, for the first time, would be a place of salvation for her.

"Get underground!" the red-haired women in purple and ringmail shouted and pointed toward the open door where everyone was rushing toward. Vell fell in, her lungs burning as her feet quickly chopped down the stairs into the underground corridor filled with the worried murmurs of the rest of the Inquisition who were bottled up and backed into the corner. There were some soldiers who were sitting on the ground, taking time to tend to wounds for the first time. Children were screaming and crying, babes hugged close to their mothers as the stones of the Chantry rumbled around them.

There was one fighter whose hands were loosely pressing a gaping wound in his flank, blood dribbling between his lips. His skin was pale and deathly, his teeth biting his lips, perhaps realizing he wasn't going to survive. Vell didn't study any healing magic and couldn't have helped him even if she wanted to.

Vell held her hand on her stomach, a pain in her gut that she was just feeling now from the exertion, over-exertion, of the fight. The Chantry rumbled again as if the church was struck by a boulder, sending up a new wave of worried cries and screams. She looked around. Men. Elves. Mages. All backed into the Chantry. All gathered and ready to be culled.

The enemy would come for the Chantry. If the dragon couldn't shatter the stones of the building, the Red Templars would soon beat in the gate. If that was the way they would have to go out, Vell wanted to go out free. She wouldn't be killed huddled in a corner with pathetic townsfolk to scared and weak to fight. The Circle had taken her life away once. If she was going to lose it a second time, she wanted to lose it on her terms.

She began pushing her way through the crowd, back toward the stairs upward where she could join the others she was sure would want to make a last stand. But before she could get there, the Grand Enchanter was on the steps, her hands above her head, shouting for quiet. Even as the Chantry rattled a third time, the cavernous underground corridor quieted.

"There is a way out!" Fiona shouted. "A path, through the mountains. We are going now. We can make it if we hurry. Follow me!"

There was a noise, it couldn't be called a cheer, but an explosion of worried chatter and shouting as the group surged back toward the stairs, the Grand Enchanter leading the way up. Vell got caught up in the tide of bodies moving up, eager to escape the burning remains of Haven. Even in the thick of the bodies, she could see the confident walk, the gleaming staff of Fiona leading the way just ahead of them.

And despite her feelings for the Grand Enchanter, Vell followed, once more.


	5. Chapter 5

**Five**

The demon shattered into a burst of greenish light that was pulled back into the nexus of the rift.

The swirling, shifting green-white hole bobbing off the side of the road pulsed and vibrated as it sucked back in the last of the energy it had spewed forth to give form to the demons. Taesas turned his head, his brows bent as he watched the shifting mass and reached out toward it with his sixth sense.

"Matteo, help Jolene," Taesas ordered without moving his gaze. The young Templar had been burned by one of the rage demons and she was now cradling her raw arm. The more senior officer would be able to protect her if another wave came through the rift.

Taesas could feel the limitless energy just on the other side of the hole, the fumes of the Fade leaking like poison through the gash in the Veil. But the edges of the rift felt stable, for now, as the energy receded in. This one was still weak, spawning shades and a few smaller rage demons. It had been no trouble for the vanguard to clear it on its own.

The rift crackled, a blink of white light as the greenish edges spun and contracted, spikes of darker, blackened fade energy crystallizing through the window into the beyond. Taesas exhaled, letting his shield drop at his side as he stood out of his defensive crouch. He spun his staff, pressing the pointed, spearlike end into the ground. "We're clear," he said to the others, who also shifted in relief. "Report."

"Two wounded, none dead," Matteo shouted as he looked over the younger Templar's burned arm. "We shouldn't need to delay."

Taesas walked over toward the Knight Lieutenant, an older man whose beard was now more white than it was brown, several streaks of grey running through his pushed-back hair. He was quietly talking to the girl, barely old enough to have taken her vows and her lyrium. She was his daughter, though they had been separated for years by their duty. That was, until the Chantry fell and she had come to Montsimmard to join her father.

"You have to be more careful," Matteo was saying as Taesas approached, pointing toward the girl's burned arm. She extended it toward Taesas and he examined it. It was a surface burn, enough to cause a serious level of discomfort but nothing that would impede her use, even if untreated.

"I know, papa," she said, her reply a mix between cordial acknowledgment and annoyed frustration.

Taesas let the healing energy flow to his hands as he carefully ran them just above her singed arm, watching as the scorch marks were cleansed and the raw flesh repaired. It was a simple task and within a few seconds he had managed to repair the arm. "Turn your stance a little more to your right and bring your shield further across your chest, and you'll be fine," Taesas said.

Jolene smiled, twisting her right arm and looking at the magically-healed flesh. "I will," she said. "Thank you, Master Taesas."

Matteo shot an exhausted look at his blushing daughter before stepping in front of her to Taesas' left side. "I'll make sure the rest of the column is prepared to move."

They were a day off the Ferelden border, although their progress had slowed significantly the closer they came to the Frostback Mountains. The Breach had formed over the Temple of Sacred Ashes deep in the mountains and it seemed that the rifts were growing more numerous the closer they approached. Demon sightings were much more common and they had passed several small villages that had either been destroyed or abandoned. There were few travelers on the road and it had not taken long to see why. They had just cleared their third rift of the day and it was hardly past lunch. They had battled demons at two rifts the day before.

Taesas, nor any of the other mages or Templars in their column had the ability to close the rifts, but they had found that if they were able to batter the demonspawn spilling from them, the rifts would at least quell for a time. He had broken down their column into a vanguard including many of their best fighters to travel a few hundred yards out before the main host, which included the Tranquil, apprentices and less useful fighters.

He had returned to Montsimmard from Marquis Brevere's estate to find a letter from Vivienne awaiting him. It had arrived two days earlier, marked for his eyes only. Matteo, being the ranking Templar left in the Circle, had kept it carefully under key until he returned.

 _My dearest Taesas,_

 _There has been an attack. Our enemy, who calls himself the 'Elder One' swept down on the Inquisition base at Haven and quickly overwhelmed the settlement. We managed to escape the massacre due to the actions of the capable Herald Trevelyan. But the attack has revealed precisely how weak and tenuous this Inquisition is in its current state._

 _To a point, I don't believe the Loyal Mages are safe in Montsimmard any more. With the civil war, the weakened Chantry and the emergence of this Elder One, I need you to get everyone out of the city immediately._

 _We have arrived at an abandoned fortress called Skyhold, deep in the Frostback Mountains. The Inquisition is rebuilding here and the castle is stalwart, if not in a deplorable state of disrepair. We should be safe here, for a time._

 _I await your arrival at Skyhold. Be watchful for demons and these so-called Red Templars in servitude to the Elder One._

 _With warmest regards,  
_ _V_

There was a single dot of ink below her solitary initial and Taesas had rubbed his fingers across the blank space on the page, infusing a bit of mana into the paper. As his fingers brushed across, a bit more written in invisible ink showed up.

 _The Herald_ recruited _the malcontents to his cause, despite my protest. I was nearly gagged with rage when the word arrived. Now this Trevelyan is indulging the possibility of even more recklessness and foolishness from our rebellious kin._

 _I will need you immediately upon your arrival, no matter the hour. We will need to stem this madness before it grows worse._

 _With love,  
_ _Vivienne_

Taesas, as the de facto leader of the Loyalists in the First Enchanter's absence, had set the Circle to preparation, gathering supplies and equipment to travel east. Anything and everything that could reasonably be taken with was packed, loaded and prepared to move. As their carts, mages and Templars walked out of the gates of the Circle, Taesas looked back and wondered when they might be able to return.

They would return, that he was certain of. With Vivienne at the lead and the Inquisition to back them, they would surely be returned to the Circle once the world was set right.

The wind blew across the roadway, lifting the long, white cape he wore pinned to his shoulders. The center of the decorative cloth was emblazoned the symbol of the Circle of Mage in burgundy. The cape was clipped into the spaulders he wore at his shoulders, tied into the thin chestplate. The padded indigo wyvern leather stretched down his arms and under the bottom lip of the breastplate into a dangling fauld. He wore metal bracers at his wrists, the tall boots he wore were plated on the front side.

Marquis Brevere had commissioned the set for him a year ago after Taesas had described his needs and drafted a rough sketch of what the armorers would need to develop. It was rare for mages to wear any type of armor, even rarer for mages to wear any sort of plate. But Taesas had trained extensively for years with Templars. He was not only capable of wearing the heavier garb of war, he was one of few mages in the tower who knew how to use it properly on the field of battle.

The large metal round shield he held in his left hand was the statement of the armor. It was larger than the kite shields the Templars carried, but it was lighter, forged with flexible wood and thin, enchanted metal coating the surface of it. The silverite shield was ringed in aurum, and, like the cape, the symbol of the circle emblazoned in the center in red steel.

Being an elf, he was forbidden from following the path of the Knight Enchanters of the Chantry, like Vivienne or Commander Helaine. Few texts remained recounting the arcane warriors of the Dalish, mages who utilized both the melee arts as well as magical technique. The Chantry had purged too much of Dalish history and lore, much to the lose of all mages.

He had been Dalish. Once. But like the Chantry, he had purged that culture from his personal history, as well.

Although the Chantry forbid study of the magic of the Dalish, the libraries did have countless volumes of demons. He had poured through volumes of demonology, studying accounts of the fierce Revenants, pride demons that were often found occupying the bodies of ancient elven warriors in the burial chambers of old ruins. He had extrapolated on the academic writing of the scholars and mixed that with the practice of what the Templars of Montsimmard could instruct to create something that was entirely his own. He was sure there was no other mage in any Circle of Thedas that approached warfare quite like he had.

Prior to the rebellion, he had never had an opportunity to put his skills to the test on the true field of battle. But the thousands of hours he had put in the training rings with the Templars had been adequate preparation. As they battled these demons along the road, he found them to be quite wanting. The Templars' centuries of study in anti-mage and anti-demon warfare was well-honed.

"You were terrific in the battle, Master Taesas," Jolene said timidly, her cheeks quite pink. "The way you dispatched those demons was amazing."

Taesas recognized that look. Her eyes gazed too widely, the color in her face betraying childish infatuation. It was a look he saw often at fetes, salons and balls in Orlais from the young courtiers, girls who were not adequately trained to play the Game. The girls had nothing, no power or influence, only a pretty, youthful face that they did not know how to use to their advantage yet.

"Thank you. I owe much of my talent to your father's patient instruction," he said. "There is much you can learn from him, still."

She was just a girl. She would profess aloud that she didn't want to grow up to be her father. But behind that facade, it was everything she sought to aspire to. Taesas was not afraid to remind her of it. "Make sure the column is ready to move," he said to dismiss her.

"Yes, Enchanter," Jolene said with a respectful nod and quickly walked away, her head down and turned to the side as she passed her father, who was returning.

"My Jolene looks embarrassed, like she just made a fool of herself in front of some crush," Matteo said.

"I'm doing what I can to turn her admiration toward a more deserving recipient," Taesas said, pointing to the Knight Lieutenant.

"Good luck with that," Matteo said. "We're ready to move. No delays." The Templar brushed his hand across his bearded mouth, rubbed his hands together and clapped once. It was a personal habit, one he done since the day they had met years ago. "How's the armor?"

"Good. Flexible. The best money can buy, or so the Marquis told me," Taesas said.

"Lucky. It took me four weeks to get the Chantry to get me a pair of new pauldrons when they promoted me," Matteo said, tapping the large, metal pauldrons jutting up from his shoulders. "That was two years ago and these things are still stiff as all hell. Chantry thinks its some kind of honor to wear extra metal up here. I'd kill to go back to those leather spaulders the recruits wear."

"You've been using that excuse about your shoulders ever since I knocked you upside the head with my staff during sparring," Taesas teased.

"And I've never been quite right since then, mind you," the Templar said shaking a finger. "It's bad enough that you learned how to swing that staff like a real weapon without me having to always be on guard for the magic stuff too."

"You know I haven't used magic on you for two years, per our agreement," Taesas said. They had been sparring in the tower and Taesas had caught a slash on his shield. As he brought the head of his staff around, he had wrapped it in force magic. The strike hit Matteo in the side so hard it broke his left arm and threw him across the training room. He had agreed to restrain himself in the future to prevent future injury. His melee had gotten good enough that he didn't even need the magic to push the senior Templar across the floor any more.

The accidental blow to the head he had given Matteo had been inconsequential in comparison. If Taesas had put magic behind it, he might have broken the man's skull.

The demons had been far easier to dispatch than Matteo. The shades and rage demons were brutish and predictable. They did little to defend themselves, relying on their horrific nature and ferocity of their attacks to overpower. But when their prey didn't fall to their long claws, they had little else to fall back on. One of the rifts had spawned a few lesser terror demons, which presented more of a challenge as they phased through the ground and popped up across the battlefield. Even Taesas had to admit his blood had chilled when they let out their paralyzing shrieks, explosive waves of fear that emanated off their spiky, wiry bodies.

They had lost five fighters to the terror demons, three mages and two Templars, the most casualties of any of their battles. Taesas had separated one in half when he had hit it with force while it was attempting to phase. The top half sheared off against the ground while the bottom half, he assumed, was lost somewhere in the Fade. Another he had been able to pin down with a crushing prison before freezing and shattering it.

They just had a few more days on the road and he expected they would meet some of the Inquisition patrols soon. At least he hoped the Inquisition had been able to secure the main roads and maintain safe travel. It's what he would have done if he was in command.

"I can't get used to the feeling of those rifts," Matteo said as he looked over his shoulder at the glowing sphere that bobbed off the side of the road, still stable and dormant. "It's not like any magic I've felt before. Makes you wonder what kind of mage is capable of making the Breach."

The swirling scar in the sky had come into view a day past. From initial reports Taesas had heard, what he saw looked significantly different from what had originally been there. There was no sick greenish light pouring out of it, no shards of the Fade falling through like meteors, no lightning and thunder as it crackled and grew. He had assumed that the Inquisition had been successful at closing it, although the wound in the sky made him wonder whether it was a permanent fix.

The energy from the rifts was so wild and chaotic, unstable. The fluctuations in the ether made it difficult to concentrate. One of the younger mages had lost control of his abilities in one of the first battles in Orlais and was on the edge of falling to possession had a Templar not been nearby to sense his distress and cut off his connection across the Veil with one sharp burst of anti-magic.

After that scare, he had swapped out most of the mages in the vanguard for more Templars, hand-selecting the mages that would join them to only ones he knew had stalwart concentration and control of their magic. He had also sent a decree through the column that no mages should be using magic outside of battle or emergencies.

It had definitely taken a mage to cause such disruption in the balance between Thedas and the Fade. No one else could have launched such destruction, even by accident. Whoever this Elder One was, he had incredible powers.

"I've had a few opportunities to explore the Fade, but it has never been so wild," Taesas said. "I believe the rifts are more chaotic because they are in an unnatural state here. The Fade cannot exist in the physical in the same way the physical form cannot exist in the Fade."

That had only happened once, the Chantry taught, with results that were arguably as disastrous as the state of the world right now.

"And this Herald is capable of closing those things?" Matteo asked.

"Those are the rumors, yes," Taesas replied as they began down the road again, the elf turning his head to look behind him to see the wagons and others lurch into motion as they all began moving.

"Better make sure he doesn't bite it out here, then," Matteo observed. "And he went and recruited the rebels?"

"Those are also the rumors, yes," Taesas said. He had shared that information with Matteo, a close friend and confidant. He knew he could trust the Knight Lieutenant with that information. _And you're concerned about what will become of the Chantry,_ Tae thought.

On cue, Matteo continued, "Makes you wonder what will become of the Circle," he said, predictably. "Sure, friends and allies are in short company now with bigger things to worry about. But when everything's set right and there's a new Divine on the Sunburst Throne, what then? Do we just go back to mages and Templars killing each other?"

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that, Matteo," Taesas said. He allowed himself a small smirk. "I'd hate to have do something embarrassing like kill you in front of your daughter."

Matteo chuckled. "Maybe I've been holding back on you these past couple years, just in case it comes to that, Tae."

"For your sake, I hope that's true," Taesas said with a laugh.

Matteo laughed too, ran a hand through his beard, rubbed his palms together and clapped. "Shit," he mused. "I really hope it doesn't come to that some day. All this killing each other has been pointless enough as it is."

 _Now this Trevelyan is indulging the possibility of even more recklessness and foolishness from our rebellious kin._

The words ran through Taesas's head once more. The Herald was no mage, yet he had sided with the mages and was now indulging the rebel's cause even further. There was always danger when non-mages tried to dabble into the arcane. In Ferelden, he still questioned why Warden Mahariel had not followed through and annulled the Circle there. With demons, abominations and blood magic rampaging through the tower, it was foolish not to.

And Warden Commander Caron in Ferelden had chosen to recruit the runaway mage Anders into the order at Amaranthine instead of handing him back over the Templars, where he belonged. The soldier's foolish judgment had cost the Grand Cleric of Kirkwall her life, as well as countless others killed in the rebellion that washed through the city.

Taesas had read accounts of what happened in Kinloch Hold during the Fifth Blight and mulled it over. If such madness had taken root in Montsimmard, what would he have done? As the Templars marched through the halls with the Rite of Annulment in hand, would he be able to stoically accept that fate? Would he give himself up for the shortcomings of all his other kin?

It was the heart of why the rebels were so reckless and dangerous. The actions of one mage had the power to ripple and affect every other mage. The fool Warden Anders had proven that. The schism was that dangerous. Even if the rebels did somehow claim victory and remain independent of the Chantry, how long would it last? How long until they did something so vile and dangerous that the Chantry was forced to act?

Freedom could not be obtained. They might remain free for a time, but eventually Thedas as whole would turn against them. An Exalted March would be an inevitable outcome to trample them into dust.

"The First Enchanter is at the side of the Herald," Taesas finally said. "If anyone can help a non-mage understand how dangerous magic can be and how paramount responsibility is in its practice, it is she."

"I hope you're right," his friend said.

Taesas did not need to hope. Vivienne would get it done. Failure was not an outcome the First Enchanter would entertain.

The Circle couldn't, wouldn't be broken.


	6. Chapter 6

**Six**

The books looked too new compared to the dusty and faded wooden shelves of the library.

The Inquisition had a new castle, a new leader and a monumental task in front of it. Of everything that needed to be done to stop all-out war in Orlais, track down Grey Wardens and close rifts that were belching demons into the world, of course the mages had thought the biggest priority was to get books.

Considering how soon it was after Haven was destroyed, Vell assumed most of the books on the shelves had to be trash that booksellers in Ferelden were looking to offload for cheap. And of course the Grand Enchanter had wanted to talk to her here, surrounded by the stink of dusty paper and rotting leather. There were towers, gardens, walls overlooking dead drops hundreds of feet into the valley and snowy mountain slopes bathed in unfettered sunlight. And Fiona wanted to meet in the dim library, with the incessant squawking of ravens on the third floor echoing through the entire central spire.

Vell had considered ignoring the summons. What could the Grand Enchanter want with her, anyway? Probably wanted to sit down and give her a lecture about all the fire she had tossed around the battlefield at Haven and reckless misuse of magic and responsibility and blah blah blah. Be more careful in the future and review this boring book by Enchanter Such and Such about theory of magic that will make you want to claw your eyes out.

Still, her feet had carried herself up the spiraling stairwell. Her head was still thumping a little bit from the several pints of ale she had drunk last night, and the couple glasses of wine and that one cup of Marcher something or other that had tasted like mint mixed with horse piss. She couldn't rightly remember which part of the night was real and what was dreamt. There were some clips of memories including punching a singer in the face, pissing out a window on the second floor of the tavern, rutting with a darkspawn on the roof of the inn and being crowned the Queen of Antiva. She assumed a few of those events had to be imagined.

Fiona was sitting in a leather armchair near the window, where long white rays of midday light were leaking in. She turned the page, lifting her eyes as she saw Vell approaching. She closed the book and motioned to another chair that was nearby.

Vell pushed a hand through her rainbow hair, pushing through a couple knots. She lifted the tail of the long leather coat she had managed to procure from the quartermaster. She let the long-sleeved, black jacket hang open, floating down behind her. She had ditched her robes for a pair of pants, some knee-high boots and a top with squared sleeves at the shoulders and a plunging neckline that exposed more of her small chest than would ever be considered appropriate at court in Orlais. She could see in the way Fiona's eyes tracked her movement that the Grand Enchanter disapproved.

"Vell, thank you for coming," Fiona said as she slid the book back onto the shelf, dusting off her hands.

"What do you want?" Vell replied curtly. It was probably more brusque than she needed to be, but she wanted to get the lecture over quickly and try to steal a midday nap before another long night of drinking.

Fiona frowned at the reply, curling her lip at the blatant disrespect, but continued anyway. "An opportunity has arisen. The Inquisition was contacted by a group of researchers from the Mages Collective."

There was a pause as Fiona looked at Vell, who shrugged. Fiona sighed, shaking her head as she placed her fingers on her forehead. "It's apparent that you don't think much of me or anyone of authority in the Circle, Vell," Fiona said with her eyes closed in an annoyed tone. "But let's pretend for a little bit that we're actually a lot smarter and more cunning than you give us credit for. I know you have had extensive dealings and connection to the Collective during your time in White Spire."

Vell might have recoiled with shock, but she didn't want to give Fiona the pleasure of seeing her caught off guard. She had found out about the Collective early in her career in the Circle. A group of apostates that operated safely outside the confines of the Circle. They policed themselves, avoided Templar gaze and delved into magic and experiments the Chantry would likely deem heretical. She had once tried to arrange for an escape, but her contacts in the Collective had advised against it. Too costly, too dangerous, too many variables of things that could go wrong. She had been disappointed, but not discouraged.

There was an older Templar, Gerald, who had a sick wife, two young children and a growing taste for lyrium. He had worked as a passthrough, sending notes and contraband between the few Circle mages who were connected and the Collective. In exchange, the Collective always made sure he was paid well and received extra doses of the lyrium he needed.

"So?" It was the only thing Vell could think of to say without digging a bigger hole for herself.

Fiona dropped her hand from her forehead and chuckled to herself. "So?" she asked herself. "I find that amusing. Did you think that Gerald went unnoticed? Every piece of correspondence that landed in his fingers ended up on my desk for my review."

That would explain why Vell didn't get responses to some of the notes she had sent. "So I talked with the Collective. What of it?" She had intended to try to contact them after escaping White Spire, but she had so much Templar heat on her tail for the first couple days that she had been forced to fall in with the other escapees. That had landed her mixed in with the rest of the rebels and she never had an opportunity. Orlais was too volatile for any mage to travel alone.

"The Mages Collective has engaged in study of the Fade rifts that are popping up all over Ferelden and Orlais. They are trying to discern whether there is a way to close the rifts without the mark that is only held by Inquisitor Trevelyan," she said. Fiona leaned forward and lowered her voice slightly. "They are also studying the raw power of these rifts and discovering that perhaps there are more efficient ways for mages to tap into the power of the Fade."

Vell raised an eyebrow. "Bitch Seeker and Commander Templar approved of that?"

Fiona sat back in her seat and pented her fingers, smiling. "They were told as much as they needed to hear. The Inquisitor thinks that finding additional ways to seal the rifts is worth a glance, despite the protests of Seeker Pentaghast and Commander Cullen."

Vell thought for a second that she almost liked this devious version of Fiona.

"The Inquisitor has agreed to send a small detail of mages to meet with the Collective and broker an agreement for an exchange of information. If they share whatever knowledge they uncover, the Inquisition grants them protection and future promises to protect them from the Chantry," Fiona said. "Since you already have connections with the Collective, I want you to go."

Vell didn't exactly relish the idea of leaving the safety of Skyhold, its well-stocked tavern and its sprawling tent city filled with strapping men for traveling along the road. "Do I have a choice?"

Fiona's smirk receded and she again got a serious look on her face. "I suppose. If you would rather stay, I can find someone else," she said. "But there are other reasons I want you to go."

Vell raised her eyebrow again. "And those are?"

Fiona chuckled. "I am not blind to your recent exploits around Haven and Skyhold. I hear more than enough. I saw you on the battlefield at Haven. You're wild and reckless."

"Thank you," Vell said.

"That's not a compliment," Fiona said with that exhausted look in her eye again. Vell smirked and shrugged.

"You wanted to escape the Circle. Letter after letter you write about oppression, the insufferability of the Circle, your longing to be free of White Spire," Fiona said. "You are free now. What have you done with it?"

"Well, I've fu-"

"You've done nothing," Fiona interrupted before Vell could get any further. "This freedom is temporary. Depending on how things play out here, what happens next will determine whether we get to stay free or whether we're dragged back to the Circles," Vell was about to interject but before she could, Fiona already perceived where she was going, "Or we can all be put to death for trying to resist. Every action we take will be taken into account. We _lost_ the war. Now our only hope of survival is to prove to this Inquisition that we deserve our freedom."

Vell hadn't really considered the larger scale. She had been more concerned with enjoying each day. Every day might be her last. Haven had nearly proven that. More than ever, she wanted to take advantage of her freedom. Death or return to the Circle, they were the same outcome to her.

"Do you know how I came to the Circle as a child?" Fiona asked. It was a harsh transition, no pause, just a question tacked onto the end of her last statement.

Vell leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. "No." She didn't really care either.

"I was purchased as a slave by a wealthy Comte. There were servants who toiled around Comte Dorian's manor, washing, scrubbing, seeing the needs of the house and guests. But I was raised as a pet. The Comte would beat me when he felt like working out the hatred he had for his wife or the frustration he felt when a business dealing did not turn in his favor. He would violate me whenever he pleased. I was no older than ten years."

It was not the story Vell had expected to hear and this time she could not swallow down her surprise and shock. Fiona's eyes were locked in, boring into Vell as she continued.

"When I discovered I could use magic, I burned Comte Dorian. I bathed him in fire, his arms and legs flailing as I listened to him scream in terror as I killed him," Fiona said. "His wife, she called the Templars. The Templars could have killed me there, a mage, who had just murdered a wealthy, influential noble. No one would have thought twice about it. I was a slave, an orphan elf. As far as society was concerned, I did not even exist.

"Instead, the took me to the Circle. I don't know if it was compassion, mercy or pity that made them do it," Fiona said. "I was so filled with hate and rage that I was blind to everything else. It was not until I begged the Wardens to take me, that I freed myself of the Circle, that I gained perspective on my life."

Fiona leaned forward, placing her hand on Vell's knee. It was a light touch that could be almost motherly, if Vell had had a mother that had done things that could be considered motherly. The Grand Enchanter's voice softened. "I want you to find that perspective in your own life," she said.

Vell wanted to slap her hand off her knee, to tell the Grand Enchanter to go fuck herself and storm back off to the tavern for an early pint. What the fuck did she want her to do? Go on some zen quest that would make her realize that life in the Circle wasn't so terrible? It was terrible. That wasn't a mistake, she knew. She was never going back. Ever. She would die first.

They were fighting this Maker-damned war so that they didn't have to go back. Fiona didn't want to go back to the Circle any more than she did. So what the fuck was she trying to say? Vell looked at Fiona. She was a fucking _Orlesian_ and this was probably some damned _Orlesian_ mind game she was playing.

But the Grand Enchanter's voice sounded sincere. Some mages liked to share stories about how they came to the Circle. But many, especially those who had done something terrible, kept their mouths shut about it. Bragging about how you froze so-and-so or burned down whatever place with your fledgling magic was a way to get a couple laughs in the mess hall, but also a way to get the Templars up your ass for the rest of your life. The smart people shut their mouths and didn't talk about it.

Was this the Game? What was Fiona trying to get out of her? The Grand Enchanter could send any mage to do this fetch quest. Go meet the Collective, talk to them and get them to sign some paper and then bring it back to Skyhold. She didn't even need to send a mage. Any idiot could go if you circled the spot on the map and pinned a note with instructions to their shirt.

She had specifically called for Vell though. This wasn't just a matter of convenience that Vell had penned a few Collective mages in recent years. She didn't even know if any of those same people were going to wherever she needed to go.

Vell wasn't anything like the Grand Enchanter.

She told herself that again, but now, she wasn't quite sure.


	7. Chapter 7

**Seven**

The mezzanine wrapped around the front wall of the keep, overlooking the great hall and all its goings-on, while also boasting a view of the main gate, inner bailey, all silhouetted by the blue and white peaks of the Frostback Mountains in the background.

Taesas could understand exactly why Vivienne had staked claim to this most prime piece of real estate in Skyhold.

The fortress was dilapidated and stank of stale water, mold and weeds. The outer walls were tall and steep enough to keep out the rabble. But a trained mage could collapse the weak spots in the with a few well-placed spells. The gatehouse looked formidable, but as he surveyed the remains of the Inquisition's army in the valley on the way up to the main fortress, he wasn't convinced the paltry army would be able to hold the walls against a more numerous host. There would need to be substantial improvements made.

If Vivienne thought this place was safer than Montsimmard, he wondered what she knew about the current state of affairs in Orlais that he didn't.

The last he had heard, the conflict in the east had slowed as the Empress and Grand Duke were growing weary of spilling each other's blood. Ambassador Briala's bandits were still causing problems for both sides, but they were few and scattered and resigned to quick-strike raids. The elvs were not a concentrated threat. None of the factions were particularly dangerous at the moment.

He assumed this Elder One she spoke of that had destroyed Haven was worth their attention. But could he strike so deep into Orlais to put Montsimmard in danger? Doubtful.

The interior of main hall of Skyhold was in as much disrepair as the exterior, scaffolds creeping up the walls, modest, unadorned wooden furniture, a small chair meant to impose as a throne at the back of the hall. There was newly-placed Orlesian colored glass in the large windows on the back wall, but they were dim with only the starlight outside to illuminate them.

"Taesas, darling," Vivienne's greeting was quiet as she entered the mezzanine as stoic and deliberate as ever, although he could tell she was fighting back the effects of being woken in the middle of the night. He pitied whoever had gone to wake her.

Vivienne wore a creme-colored silk chemise that fell mid-thigh, thin, narrow straps holding the dainty fabric at her shoulders. The nightgown was a striking contrast against her skin as Taesas stole glances at her long, powerful legs flowing from under the carefully embroidered hem, her feet in small, fashionable Orlesian slippers. The neckline of the nightgown was not nearly as provocative as some of the First Enchanter's outfits, yet he could still feel the rush of lust as his eyes passed over the shadow of her cleavage.

Vivienne's room must have been close and there must be few people awake at this hour for her to come to him in such a state of undress, he thought. He had expected to have to wait a half an hour for Vivienne to dress and prepare herself. Even in the middle of the night, appearances counted.

She walked to the balcony door, opening it narrowly to let the cool night air seep in as she sat upon the couch, her right leg lifting, the knee quickly bending and crossing over her left leg in one swift move. Her hands ran across the silk once to smooth it before she folded her hands in her lap, her shoulders lifted high, her head up, projecting that same air of confidence, propriety and power that she always did.

"Your letter said 'no matter the hour,'" Taesas reminded her, daring a small smile at Vivienne. Despite her making all the correct, proper moves, he knew she could lie down and fall asleep within seconds.

"Yes, I remember, darling," she said with no humor. "We have a problem."

Taesas nodded. He had seen the camp of the rebel mages on his way in, making sure to settle his legion of Templars and mages as far away from them as was possible. He didn't even want the wafting stink of their rebellion to wash upon his camp.

"Inquisitor Trevelyan is proving to be quite obstinate," Vivienne said. "I would have thought for a younger sibling of a noble Marcher family, he might have had a greater appreciation for the Chantry and its workings. Apparently, I overestimated him."

Before Taesas was able to interject, Vivienne raised her hand slightly to stay him. "Don't worry. That is not our problem. I will take sterner action with him and make sure that he is brought to heel." Her voice brimmed with confidence. Taesas did not doubt that she would succeed, even having lost the first battle.

"The Inquisitor has agreed to engage with the Mages Collective in Orlais," Vivienne said with disgust.

The Mages Collective was even worse than the rebels, Taesas thought. They had long flaunted the rules of the Chantry, engaging in numerous, illicit dealings to cover their existence and poison others in the Circle. He had once stumbled upon a Templar's connection to the Collective while he was negotiating rune trade with the markets in Montsimmard. He had quickly exposed the plot to the Knight Commander and the Templar had been summarily dismissed from duty. Word had come back a week later that he had hanged himself when the lyrium cravings grew too intense. Taesas felt no pity for the man.

"The fools are studying the Fade rifts," Vivienne explained. "They claim that their efforts are focused on finding another way to close the rifts. The Inquisitor was naive enough to believe it."

"They're obviously trying to tap the tears as a source of power," Taesas said. That was apparent.

"Of course they are," Vivienne agreed with bite. "I tried to make sure that the Inquisitor understood that, but he brushed aside my concern with a platitude that any information that could help in closing the rifts was a priority."

Taesas wondered briefly whether Vivienne did in fact have the ability to straighten up this Inquisitor. He was not Orlesian. He did not play the Game. And his actions thus far suggested that he was a rebel sympathizer.

"Through a combined effort with Seeker Pentaghast and Commander Cullen, we were able to get the Inquisitor to send more than just an envoy from that malcontent Fiona to investigate. I promised that I would send my own representative and a selection of hand-picked Templars to also travel to this meeting with the Mages Collective. They will evaluate the safety and necessity of their foolish prodding of dangerous, unethical forces across the Veil," Vivienne finished.

Her eyes settled on him, her demands made.

Vivienne was tired, not at her best. The stress of butting heads with this Inquisition was also leaving her weary, he could see. Madam de Fer did not often expose weaknesses in her armor. But even Taesas knew the Game demanded that opportunities could not be passed up.

"You'll name me First Enchanter," Taesas demanded, his voice low and serious, his eyes unwavering.

Vivienne laughed, playfully bringing her right hand to her breast as she turned her head and chuckled in amusement. But the fingers on her left hand curled slightly around the hem of her chemise, the tendons of her fingers tightening, barely visible in the dim. She smiled, turning her head back as the fingers of her right hand tugged slightly at the neckline of her nightgown, exposing a little more of her breast in an effort to knock him off balance.

"Excuse my sudden outburst, darling," she said. Taesas did not flinch and held his eyes at hers, ignoring the way she was trying to blind him with a little seduction. "But _I_ am First Enchanter. Why would I resign my position to you?"

"Because you already know that you will succeed in molding the Inquisition to back the Circle and the Chantry. The shattered clerics of the Chantry are too weak, disparate and stupid to elect a new Divine on their own. If the Inquisition succeeds in its bid to stabilize Thedas, the clerics will inevitably bow to its influence to select a new leader. They will want Cassandra Pentaghast despite her shortcomings and you will encourage the Inquisitor to back her claim to the Sunburst Throne.

"When Pentaghast ascends as the new Divine, she will reform the Circles. Those Circles will be reformed primarily from the remaining Loyalists and the few rebels who choose to come back peacefully. The enchanters will, without hesitation, appoint you as Grand Enchanter, thus causing you to vacate your position leading the Circle in Montsimmard."

To succeed in the Game, you did not only need to be aware of everything that was happening around you in that moment, but everything that happened in the past and everything that was going to happen in the future. Taesas had been plotting the potential outcomes of the schism in the Circles ever since the rebels voted to separate from the Chantry. The most likely outcome had changed many, many times during the course of the war.

When Vivienne had made the decision to join the Loyalists to the Inquisition, it had eliminated numerous variables. The recent unraveling of the Chantry in Val Royeaux had further proved that the faith was now too weak to stand on its own. The clerics who had decried the Inquisition as blasphemy now had no other choice but to sit idly by and watch to see if it could succeed. If it did, the Revered Mothers would come begging them for aid.

Trevelyan was human, noble, from a family with a strong Chantry background. His most influential advisers included the Right Hand and Left Hand of the previous Divine, a traumatized Templar who could shed the crest of the flaming sword but never shed his fear of magic and an ambassador trained in the most illustrious schools of Orlais. In diplomacy, the common belief in the Maker and Andraste bound all nations of Thedas together. The Chantry would need to be reforged and be strong to mend the world.

Vivienne's face was blank, but he knew she was processing everything he said, gauging what kind of threat he was, replaying all of the material she had against him and wondering whether she would need to destroy him before his machinations grew any larger.

"That's adorable, my dear. But you haven't exactly made a case for why I should select _you_ if this very long train of events just so happens to play out," she said.

"You _don't_ want to name me," Taesas said. "This is Orlais and I am an elf. The Circles in the Marches or Antiva might be able to get away with an elf, but certainly not in Orlais."

That was known. Political motivations were always in play, even in a backwater like Ferelden. Irving at Kinloch Hold had not risen to the top of the circle by accident and he did not stay there for decades simply by his own merits. He had the right types of connections to ensure his quick rise and his moderate attitude was tolerated by both mages and Templars.

"But if you don't name me, you'll have to name Cecille Colieux. You know as well as I that Cecille only holds the sway she does because of her father's money. She sways Aequitarian more than you like, which will only grow worse because the woman has no love for you. You and I and everyone in the court knows she carried and gave birth to Duke Galien's illegitimate child, but no one can use it without enraging House Valmont and bringing the Empress' wrath upon them. If she becomes First Enchanter, it will make her even more untouchable.

"The only other option you would reasonably have is to name Guyanne du Montfort. That might have worked five years ago, but since the fool Duke Prosper was killed in that spat with Hawke and the Qunari, the house has fallen far. Guyanne is likable enough, but he does not play the Game well as has too much exposure. The nobles and the Circle would tear him apart.

"The reformed Chantry and Circle will need immediate support and allies. Naming an elf to the prestigious station of First Enchanter will show a new, albeit feigned, acceptance of elves under the new Divine. I am connected to enough of the noble houses to quell their ire, either because the adore me or they know that I am skilled enough in the Game to destroy them if they cross me."

Taesas paused to deliberately scan her long legs again, to look at the way the foot at the end of her right leg spun in slow, small circles as she processed all he was saying. He gazed upon her ample breast now, noticed that she had stopped toying with the edge of the fabric, her fingers still and pressed against her breastbone. He looked up her long, thin neck, glancing across the strong bones of her face, those hard but beautiful eyes, the bald head she wore proudly compared to most Orlesian women who would not ever be seen without a full head of meticulously styled curls.

The tension in her lips showed him that she was struggling, that he had quickly, fiercely cornered her, that she had scanned all the information she contained about him and realized that she could not dismantle him without him tearing her down as well.

It was a bluff. Taesas knew that even if Vivienne turned on him, for her, and for the good of the Circle, he would not retaliate. He would let her crush him, eliminate him and not fire a single shot in return.

"And you know that I love you. I am now, and forever will be fiercely, devotedly, unwaveringly yours."

There was a silence and Vivienne was still as marble. It was only now that Taesas lowered his gaze, his face submissive, reverent to his mentor and mistress. It was the final move in a strike he had been planning for years, plotting for the final leap he could ever be expected to make for power and influence. The title of First Enchanter was a ceiling, but one that had been growing closer and closer to him every day.

Vivienne broke the silence with a short "Hmph," that Taesas could only reconcile as a minor vocalization indicating that perhaps, just maybe, she was impressed with his action. The First Enchanter lifted the hand from her chest, moving both of her hands on top of the knee of her crossed leg. Her head cocked slightly and she leaned forward.

"If I am named Grand Enchanter," she began. "You have my word that I will appoint you as the next First Enchanter in Montsimmard."

More than that, she did not say. To speak any more, to praise his attack, to make some admission that he had been right that she had no other choice would only weaken her more. Taesas had found the joint in the armor and he had quickly, deftly driven the point of the blade in. The damage had been done and there was no need for a second attack.

"Thank you, Vivienne," Taesas said, suppressing his urge to smile. "I promise you won't regret your charity."

The Game had ended. Vivienne shed her armor, her posture changing, loosening all in one instant. "Make sure you see to it that the Mages Collective does not do any reckless damage. And I'm sure you will make sure that the Inquisition does not indulge this type of behavior further," she said, back to their original topic.

"I won't disappoint," he said.

Vivienne did rub her eyes now and let an errant yawn escape her mouth. Their business was concluded. Although made of iron, the First Enchanter was still allowed to be human, on occasion. "Oh darling, I do believe it was a mistake to treat with you at this late hour," she said.

"I'm sorry," he could only reply.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I am returning to bed. I need my rest. I have another long day of trying to convince the imbeciles of this Inquisition of something they should already know, that magic is dangerous when used irresponsibly."

"I would be happy to accompany you to bed, to serve you in whatever manner you might need this evening," Taesas dared, a smirk on his face as he took one last, very deliberate and conspicuous look at her body.

Vivienne rolled her eyes as she uncrossed her legs, stood and began walking back toward her quarters. "I'll remind you that my goodwill has its limits, darling," she said aloud without turning her head to look at him. "Good night, Taesas."

"Good night, Vivienne."

It, indeed, had been a good night.


	8. Chapter 8

**Eight**

It was summer again.

Free of the mountains, on the highway stretching west into Orlais, with the Waking Sea rumbling miles to the north, the weather returned to normal. The sun was shining brightly today, cloudless skies, the vague outline left in the sky where the Breach had once been.

Vell stretched her arms over her head, rolling her shoulders back as she inhaled the smell of the grass and trees. She was out. Free of the Circle, free of the bitter mountain chill, free of the admonishments of the Grand Enchanter. Nothing should have been able to sour the experience, until she remembered the small group of Templars and their stuffy mage leader.

When Vell had gotten the last-minute update that the Loyalists had weaseled their way into the party, she let go of a string of curse words that she couldn't even remember. By the time Fiona had informed her that party would also include Templars, plural, Vell had already run out of words. She didn't want to repeat, so she just groaned.

She had thought two Templars would be more than were welcome. The Loyalists sent six. And the elf mage that they sent as their representative looked fully _Orlesian_. Between his carefully combed hair, shiny armor and the long white - but not dirty - cape he wore, he screamed _Orlesian._ He had even offered to take the lead to make sure they made it safely to their target, a small coastal city between Verchiel and Lydes named Ceraux. She had restrained to the urge to tell him to go something his something and as politely as she could, informed him that this was _her_ mission and he and his Templars were merely spectators.

Nevermind that she didn't know where exactly this Ceraux place was or how to get there. She had a map, but she didn't know where shit was in Orlais. She had been locked up in the Circle since she was a kid. Although Enchanter Uptight Elf got passes to leave his Circle, the Templars never let her out. She had asked, once, and the Templar laughed. Then she kicked him in the balls. Then she ended up spending two nights in solitary. She didn't bother asking again.

"Watch out for demons around this curve," the elf said as he stepped up next to her, pointing up the road. There was a dim green light off in the treeline to the south. "We ran afoul of some here on our way east."

There didn't seem to be any demons around. She didn't see any prowling along the road. She reached out to the Fade with her sixth sense, but didn't feel anything unusual there either. "It looks clear," Vell said.

"I can send the Templars ahead to check," he continued.

"I said it looks fine," Vell said, annoyed. "We'll just keep to the right side of the road."

"As you wish."

The elf didn't fall back with the Templars. He continued to walk in step next to her, looking down over her, his eyes scanning over her clothes and the staff that hung at her back. Vell's staff wasn't anything special. A simple wooden pole with a steel cap on the narrow end. The head merely twisted around a small focusing crystal, the spiraling ends meeting at a dull point atop it all. The teachers had made a big production about the importance of a mage's staff and blah blah something. She had just opted for something simple and easy. Not like she used it anyway.

The other mage's staff, however, was nearly as fancy as the Grand Enchanter's. It wasn't gilded like hers, but the staff was thick and solid. One edge had a long, wicked point like a spear as gleaming and sharp as any Templar sword. The other end was a large, steel globe of sorts and reminded her of a bludgeon that some of the Templars carried. Judging by the shield and the armor, he was some kind of fighter, she guessed.

"That's an unusual outfit, for a mage," he said, pointing to her long, black jacket. She looked to see if he was staring at her chest, such as it was. He wasn't. Not that that bothered her. He did have very defined features and was quite handsome for an elf. But she wasn't into elves. And she certainly wasn't into _Orlesians._

"I could say the same," she bounced back. "What's with the shield? Circle not Templar-y enough for you?"

He didn't look amused. Definitely _Orlesian_. He was as dry and humorless as Fiona. "The Templars have helped train me, yes," he said plainly. "They have immense speciality in battling demons, a skill I was eager to learn."

"Uh huh," Vell said. She tried to increase her pace a little bit, but the elf just took a slightly longer stride, keeping up with her. He was at least a half-head taller than her.

"I'm Taesas, by the way," he said, introducing himself. "Enchanter of Montsimmard."

"Vell," she said, extending her hand. He looked confused, but took it and gently shook it.

"You're rather young for an Enchanter, no?" he asked.

Vell snorted as she laughed aloud. "Ha! Enchanter! Funny!"

"I'm sorry?" He sounded confused.

"You said Enchanter," Vell said. His blank expression deflated her. She shrugged her shoulders. "That's funny."

"So then you're not a senior mage?" he asked.

"Piss on the senior mages," Vell said. "You've got to plant your lips on a lot of asses for that kind of shit."

His face kept expressionless. _Orlesians_ always did that. _Orlesians_ never reacted. But he had to have been mortified, she guessed. No matter how many asses needed to be kissed, this elf had clearly smooched them all. Elves didn't get anywhere in Orlais. Elves didn't get anywhere in the Circle. Elves didn't get shiny armor and fancy staves and any kind of responsibility without getting down on their knees to service the Templars and the Circle superiors.

"I'm sorry you feel that way," he said instead. "You must be from White Spire in Val Royeaux. I don't recall seeing you at Montsimmard."

Vell flipped her long bangs out of her eye, brushing her fingers through the rainbow hair on the side of her head. "Fifteen glorious years of servitude in the biggest prison in Orlais," she said. She ran her finger across the six earrings in her ear, baiting him, goading him to ask about them. She wanted to see him try to keep a straight face when she recounted how she killed each of the six Templars.

Taesas didn't bite. "I haven't had an opportunity to view White Spire, outside of the main foyer. But I've heard it's quite majestic. Ancient, by the standards of most buildings in Val Royeaux, steeped in history."

"Old walls and pretty paint doesn't make a prison less of a prison," Vell retorted.

Perhaps the Enchanter tired of her hostility and took a different tone. "I know you're with the rebels and it's pretty clear you have an extreme disdain for the Circle," he said. "But why? Didn't the Circle give you a home, give you an opportunity to learn how to control your magic safely?"

Vell crossed her arms over her chest. "I have my reasons," she said. "You brought six of them with you."

Taesas turned his head back, looking at the six Templars who were following, chatting quietly with one another, watching the two mages walking before them. "The Templars? They exist to protect you and I. I admit, there are some bad ones, but overall-"

"How did you come to the Circle?" Vell interrupted.

Taesas scowled at being cut off. "It's not proper for mages to discuss," he said. He wasn't planning to share.

"I got caught trying to pickpocket a Templar," Vell said. She spoke of it with pride. Maybe mages didn't discuss that kind of thing often. Vell, on the other hand, enjoyed telling the story. "I don't know about you, but I grew up on the streets. Steal or die. That kind of life.

"I had just discovered that I could use magic a couple weeks before. I figured out how to use it to distract people, mess with their heads, start small fires that always brought everyone running. I had just figured out how to paralyze people. I had been trying it on some of the other kids, freezing up their arms and legs. Laughing like mad, watching them fall flat on their faces. Figured it was time to test it out for real," Vell recalled.

"This guy is walking down the street toward the cafe alone. He's got a fat purse just dangling from his belt. Just so fat. So fat that I couldn't _not_ try to steal it, you know?" Ser Fancy Elf didn't know. Wouldn't want to know. She knew. "I sneak up behind him, I cast my spell and he freezes. I run out and grab the purse and give it a yank. But just as I do, he turns and snatches me by the wrist."

Vell had nearly shit her pants, she remembered. His large hand was locked around her wrist, a strong grip, a soldier's grip. No way for her to break out of it. She tried to pull, tried kicking him in the legs. She didn't scream. Screaming would have brought the wrong kind of attention. But she couldn't break free.

"Turns out he was a Templar. I didn't know. He wasn't wearing his armor or anything. I figured this guy is going to drag me right to the city guard and who knows what's going to happen then. Instead, he smiled and asked me, 'How did you do that, little girl?'"

She could never forget those words. She would never forget his kindly smile. She could never figure out why she didn't think that he was one step away from turning her in or killing her. Just something about the way he said it. The way she saw it on his face. The way that she completely forgot about the fat, fat purse at his belt.

"I knew better than to tell him it was magic. I was just a kid, but I wasn't stupid. I tried to cast another spell on him but it just kind of sputtered off my fingers. Didn't know why. Then he told me he was a Templar. He said, 'You look hungry. Let me get you something to eat.' He bought me a sandwich. He asked me about my magic again. Stupid me, I told him the truth about it."

Vell could still remember the taste of that sandwich on her tongue. She remembered the charred taste on the roasted chunks of chicken, the sharp, herby cheese, the slight dew on the lettuce that broke with a crisp, cracking sound as she bit into it. She remembered how the roll was still slightly warm, just out of the oven, the crunchy crust surrounding the fluffy, flaky interior. It was the best meal she had ever eaten. Still, to this day, nothing could ever match it in her head.

"He told me there was a place for mages like me. He pointed to the towering white pillar jutting up in the center of the city. He said, 'That's White Spire. That's where mages live. They can teach you to use your magic. There are lots of other little girls your age there, too. The mages can take care of you there and help you.' Then he smiled and asked me - not told me - _asked_ me, 'Do you want to go there?'"

Taesas was listening carefully and broke in. "He would have taken you, even if you said no."

"That's not the point," Vell said, irritated. She kicked a stone with her foot, watching it tumble end over end along the road. "I know he would have taken me anyway. The point is, all those things he promised me, none of them were true. He offered to help me and I trusted him."

She could still remember the way that Templar asked about her. He asked if she had any brothers or sisters. He asked about her parents. He asked about their home. Vell told him the truth, answering his questions between greedy bites as she gnawed through the sandwich that she held with a death grip in her tiny elven hands.

She could still remember his short, grey beard. The way his eyes closed as his smile spread wide across his face, the way his hearty laugh sounded when he chuckled at something she said. She remembered his voice, soft and caring despite the fact she had tried to pinch his purse. His eyes, so gentle and calming as he watched her devour that sandwich, sitting in the small wooden chairs at the outdoor cafe as Orlesians walked past, casting disapproving glances at a tiny elf girl eating at their streetside cafe. She might as well have been a rat nibbling crumbs on the table to them, but not him.

The memory still hurt, a pain that twisted in her stomach as she thought about it again now.

"I trusted him. He made me believe," Vell said. "I held his hand as he walked me to the gate of White Spire as he told me everything would be OK."

The Templar squeezed her hand before letting go as he passed her off to the Templars at the front door. The last thing she saw before the heavy, impenetrable door of the tower shut was his smiling face, his hand waving goodbye as they escorted her deeper into the tower.

"I never saw him again," Vell said. Her voice had fallen a little lower now, sad almost as she recalled his face. But her voice elevated back in anger as she clenched her hands into fists. "And it's for the best that I never did."

The Templars took her down to intake. They stripped her bare of her ragged clothes. One bet the other that she had fleas. They tossed some smelly powder on her. It burned in her hair and got in her eyes. She said it hurt. The Templars told her to shut up.

She started to cry. One of the Templars hit her. She cried more. He hit her even harder. If she didn't shut up, he'd lock her in the hole until she did. They complained about "another Maker-damned elf." They threw a bucket of icy water over her. She screamed. They threw a robe at her and told her to put it on.

She said she was cold. They punched her in the stomach. She slid into the robe. It was itchy. She was shivering. They grabbed her by her dripping hair and pulled her. She squirmed. They told her to shut up again. They took her to a bed. This was her new home. Enjoy it.

The other children in the apprentice quarters looked at her. Some turned away, avoiding her eyes as if she carried plague. Others whispered to each other and laughed. An older boy came over and shoved her onto the floor and stole her pillow. Another boy took her thin blanket. She tried to talk to another girl who was near her bunk, but the little human girl with curly blonde hair pretended like Vell didn't even exist.

She lay on her stiff mattress, her head flat against the bed, curled into a ball to try to keep warm without a blanket. Vell cried silent tears, not wanting to make a sound, not wanting to cause any more trouble.

Vell punched her hand into her palm and looked at Enchanter Taesas.

"Because everything he told me turned out to be one big, fucking, _lie."_


	9. Chapter 9

**Nine**

Ceraux was a fine study in Orlesian modesty.

Or at least, what passed for modesty in the Empire. It was geographically advantaged, lying on the Waking Sea a few hours sail from Val Royeaux, while only a few days ride to both Verchiel and Lydes. It sat in the rich and fertile Heartlands of Orlais, the oldest and wealthiest seats of power in Orlais.

But Ceraux was purposefully subdued. The city was designed to be small and its leaders had defended itself against sprawl for centuries. While its walls and building could have been updated with more lavish materials or decoration, instead the city prided itself on painstaking restoration of its Storm Age architecture; a time when the city served as an important port during the Exalted Marches against the Qunari.

It lacked the grand marvels of Val Royeaux, but was more traditional and timeless than many of the newer cities. Creeping ivy, carefully controlled and cut, covered walls. Small cafes and open-air art galleries sat along the waterfront. The docks ran quietly and cleanly, treating only with well-spoken captains and crews that knew how to behave like proper Orlesians. And the nobles walked the streets in masks that were purposely plain and humble, although many could have afforded and commissioned something more luxurious.

This city was an Orlesian gem, something so unlike anywhere else that one could not help but fall in love with it, Taesas thought.

"There are a few good inns here," Matteo said as they passed under the arched gate into the city. Guardsman stood overlooking the entry on the walls, longswords at their hips and heavy, Orlesian crossbows in their hands as they patrolled back and forth. Their tabards were a mix of powder blue, white and faint yellow gold, shining steel chainmail peeking out under their city colors. They did not wear full, masked helms as many other cities, instead donning the much more open kettle helm. It had been centuries since kettle helms were the common garb of war, of most use during times of extended war when they were easier and less costly to produce. It was just another slice of Ceraux's charm.

"There is one in the downtown that overlooks the square. Standard accommodations but they have the best food. Mussels with a wine and saffron sauce that will make you question every other meal you've ever eaten," Matteo said. "There is another inn on the waterfront that I would recommend. Pricier, for sure, but the softest beds and the owner has an impressive wine cellar below. All of the rooms overlook the sea, too. A beautiful way to wake up in the morning."

"Which one has better beer?" the rebel asked.

Matteo fumbled. He wasn't expecting it, despite the fact that this elf had been nothing but boorish and crude since the moment they left Skyhold. "My pardon, miss, but I don't believe any of the inns stock," he swallowed. "Ales. Perhaps a honey mead, but certainly not-"

"Ugh," was the interruption as the rebel threw her hands above her head.

Matteo turned to the Taesas instead. "Your preference?"

Taesas looked up above the city skyline, searching the pennants that flew atop the tall villas that stretched up from the streets. The nobility lived in the narrow villas, each jutting up like four children's blocked stacked unevenly atop one another. But the roofs were the jewel of each with shade trees, decorative pergolas, dining tables for evening meals in the backdrop of the sunset.

Taesas had never been here before, but he was aware of the city and its charms. And Ceraux wasn't completely foreign, as he scanned the pennants, his eyes locking onto a particular banner fluttering gently in the soft afternoon wind.

He pointed toward it. "Perhaps we can save a little coin and rest in a less, public, venue," Taesas said.

He looked to the rebel. This was _her_ mission, she insisted. But Vell shrugged.

She had been comfortable with the road and overly unalert in camp despite the dangers of the road. But as they had grown closer and closer to Orlesian civilization, her eyes darted around more frequently and she took long stock of soldiers, guards and, especially, the few other Templars they had crossed.

She came from the bottom of society and a decade and a half in White Spire had clearly done nothing to culture her. She was out of place in a place like Ceraux with so much history, class and pride.

Their small group walked down the cobblestone lanes of Ceraux, past the lamppost lined street, past the quiet marketplace where sellers did not need to shout or hawk their wares to make sales. They passed the smells of bakeries, the colorful fruits stacked neatly in baskets at the grocer, past the red glow of freshly cut meat in the window at the butcher.

There were young men chatting with young ladies in billowing dresses, their humble masks hiding their faces and their true intent. But Taesas' eyes saw all of the subtle body language as they passed, many younger people unskilled at the Game. The man with the brown and gold mask was standing slightly bent to try to mask the bulge in his pants. The woman he spoke with had a dress that was too exposed at the chest. She spoke too much with her hands as a way to hide that she must have had very little of interest to say. He was high born. She, lesser so. An attempt, no doubt, to jump her station.

Another man held his hand over the mouth of his mask as he spoke, obviously trying to speak low and secretly about some matter. The man he spoke to leaned too much on his back leg as if he was ready to flee at an instant. They were not related although they worse the same mask. The leaning man was obviously having an affair with the other's wife, but the husband did not know it.

A woman in a rather slim, yellow dress sat on a bench, flipping the pages of a small pocketbook. She glanced up from time to time, looking across the street at the cafe and a couple chatting over tea. Her motions were much more practiced and subtle. Too practiced for her age, and her shoes spoke of the latest fashions of Val Royeaux and not this region. She was a bard. One early in her training, to betray such mistakes.

Taesas knew they did not notice him. Despite the entourage and despite his garb, his pointed ears turned away their gaze after a cursory look. The ones who gazed longer were the bigots, questioning to themselves how an elf could obtain what he had obtained. The others paid no mind, because he was an elf and an elf was of no consequence no matter how fancy his clothes. It is how he knew that none of these people on the street knew how to play the Game. No one here was worth the effort.

Their group of eight stopped before the door of one of the towering villas, a red-painted door wreathed by a thin brace of ivy. The red shutters were drawn back and the windows were open to let in the cool evening air. Taesas turned to the others and motioned for them to wait at the bottom of the steps. "Allow me a moment," he said.

He stepped up the narrow stairway to the door, giving three quick raps on the wooden door with his knuckles. There was a stirring that could heard through the open window and the door cracked open, a young, female elven servant answering. She looked Taesas up and down quickly before stating, "How may I help you, my lord?"

Good. Although he was an elf, at least this servant had a good eye for a guest of import when she saw one. Alycine had always been clever and he doubted she would surround herself with anyone inept. "Begging your pardon, miss. My name is Enchanter Taesas of the Circle of Montsimmard. I was hoping to inquire if Lady D'Tarlege was available. I apologize that she is not expecting me and that I arrive quite unannounced."

The elf girl nodded. "Just a moment, my lord." She closed the door before he could hear footsteps of her quickly scurrying away. Taesas placed his hands behind his back, patiently eyeing the features of the home. Her villa was well kept. The paint looked fresh. The windows were spotless. The walls were in good shape, with only minor physical flaws despite the home clearly being centuries old.

The door opened again and the lady of the house stood in a striking red dress, her black hair unfettered as it fell in one straight, flawless sheet down her back. Her ice blue eyes shone like aquamarine under her mask. Though she was in her fortieth years, with her mask she still looked half her age. The strand of pearls at her neck were immaculate.

"I admit, after all these years I hardly expected you, Tae, to be calling upon me," she said, her right hand running slowly up the frame of the doorway, her weight slowly shifting, her hip bumping out to the side just slightly. "To what do I owe the honor?"

"You are the purest form of seduction, Alycine," Taesas said in a muted voice so that no one but her might hear. "I sadly regret that it is business, not pleasure, that brings me a humble beggar to your doorstep. I'm on business here to Ceraux for the Circle and I was hoping you might be willing to lodge myself and my companions for the evening."

Alycine looked past him to the Templars and the rebel mulling in the street. Her ruby lips turned into a wicked smirk. "Who's the other elf? I do hope she's not a new dalliance of yours."

"It is a tale, my lady, and let me leave it at that," Taesas said.

Alycine turned, resting her back against the doorframe, her body twisting slowly and deliberately like the most talented dancer. She commanded such perfect control of her body, almost as well as she played the Game. Her skills were only held in check by her lack of ambition and disinterest in playing. Otherwise she might be capable of holding Orlais by the throat.

"I don't know, Tae. I don't want to be known as the woman who gives refuge whenever seven men come knocking on my door," she said. Alycine's fingers lightly brushed her hair away from her cheek, her left shoulder lifting just slightly as she bent her head innocently toward it. She threaded the pearls between her fingers, a slight tug at the necklace as her lip shifted just slightly.

"And here I thought I was your one, true love," he said, stepping closer, but keeping his hands to himself. For now.

Alycine smiled. "Yes, I can't help but cry out for you at night."

"I'm not above begging," Taesas said, his face just inches from hers now, so close he could feel the hot whisper of her breath upon his lips.. "On my knees, if necessary."

* * *

"The meal was lovely, Lady D'Tarlege," Matteo said as he wiped his lips with the black cloth napkin.

The cooks had blackened double-thick lamb chops and paired it with a faintly mint yogurt sauce. A cold slaw of cucumber had paired well. And Alycine had called for fresh oysters. She always did have a spot for a fresh oyster over ice, Taesas remembered. It had been more than two years since he last saw her. But he had not forgotten her.

"I hope the accommodations will be sufficient. I apologize for not having enough beds for you all," she said.

She didn't mean that. She wasn't required to host any of them, much less six soldiers lumbering around her carefully decorated home in platemail. She had made it clear that they should disarm themselves before attending dinner. She had provided proper clothing from her husband's extensive wardrobe for each, as well. The Templars would need to bunk with each other in the large beds in the multiple guest bedrooms.

She had spared the smaller bedroom overlooking the plaza for Vell. That left no extra space for Taesas except her own bed. Her husband was away in Lydes. A chevalier and a commander, he had been called by Grand Duke Gaspard to the front. He had been gone for months now.

Alycine didn't seem to miss him at all, the way she sat, sipping her glass of dry, potent chablis as she carefully lifted each shell to her mouth and slurped down the next oyster. Taesas had stopped attempting to keep pace with her three ago. Matteo had eaten three and claimed he could not in good conscience stretch her hospitality any further. The other Templars, all younger and less traveled than Matteo, either declined outright or were looking somewhat green. Vell had picked at half of her somewhat bloody chop, not touched anything else, and downed three glasses of wine.

"We will make do, my lady," Matteo said with a respectful bow of his head. "Your hospitality is appreciated."

Alycine smiled, sipped her wine and looked at Taesas. "He's quite charming, this one. Married?"

"Yes," Taesas replied.

"A pity," she said as she tipped her glass to her lips again.

The exchange made Matteo look uncomfortable. "If you'll excuse us, my lady," he said, folding his napkin into a square and placing it on the table, pushing himself up from the table. The other Templars followed their leader and left from the table. The elf rebel did not move though, instead slouching in her seat and pouring herself another glass of wine.

Alycine reached for the next oyster. "You have quite a colorful head, my dear," she said. Taesas wanted to frown that she was engaging with the rebel at all. Normally she would have ignored the elf, as Vell's behavior, attitude and dress demanded. But the lady never acted without purpose.

"Thanks," Vell said, gulping at the wine. It was hardly courteous.

"I suppose you didn't get out of the Circle much, like Tae here," Alycine said. "All of those rules. I never quite understood them myself. Locking people in a house isn't a way to win over hearts and minds. My husband can tell you that."

"Then why don't you just leave?" Vell's voice was bitter and attacking.

"Vell," Taesas admonished with a hard tone in his voice. The gall. Her lack of social grace was so appalling. She would last less than ten seconds in any respectable court. There was a reason the Circle kept animals like her locked away.

Alycine playfully slapped his arm. "Oh, be nice, Tae." She placed her glass down on the table, slurping another oyster and tossing the shell aside haphazardly into the pile with the others. "My prison is very fancy, you see. Whatever I need, I can have here. My husband is almost never here. And my children, occasionally, warm my heart in those brief glimpses when they're not being spoiled brats."

"What'd you do to _earn_ it?" Vell challenged.

Alycine laughed. "I got on my back, birthed and raised four sons for my piggish husband. A jaunt in the Circle might be a nice holiday in comparison."

"That's it?" Vell sounded unimpressed.

"If you're clever, there is much you can gain in Orlais if you're pretty and polite," Alycine said. Her hand swooped down, swiftly snatching up her wine glass. "That lesson, my dear, is for free."

Vell rolled her eyes in disgust and gulped down the rest of her wine, tossing the glass back to the table where it wobbled and fell over on its side. She got up from the table without a word and headed for the stairs.

When she was out of earshot, Taesas picked up the wine glass and set it upright. "I apologize for her behavior."

Alycine sipped, waving her hand dismissively. She pulled her glass away, wiping the small trace of lipstick from the rim. "You'd look cute together," she teased.

"The rebels can have her," he said.

Alycine slipped out of her chair, extending her hand for Tae. He took it in his own hand as he stood, her elegant fingers just lightly pressed in his stronger hand. A true and practiced lady. "Come," she said, pointing toward the stairs up with her wine glass. "Time to earn your keep for the night."

* * *

Multiple candles burned on the table near the head of the bed, while the rest of the chamber was dark.

Alycine dabbed the brush down against her palette, twirling it around as the bristles picked up the paint. She lifted it, turning her head back to observe him before pressing it lightly to the canvas, dragging several quick, light strokes.

"First Enchanter? That's quite a step for you, Tae," she said. "How long have you been playing for it?"

Taesas lay as still as he could, his left knee bent and up, his left arm balanced atop it. His hips turned slightly toward her, his weight resting on his right elbow, bent, with his head held up in his palm. "Since the beginning, truthfully," he said. "Truly for the last two years, since my confession."

Alycine did not turn her head as she continued to paint. The strong, yellow light of the candle illuminated the upper half of his body, almost harshly so, but it faded quickly to shadows as she followed his body down toward his feet.

"She'll never love you," Alycine said bluntly. "Shall I embellish you, or are you satisfied with your measurements?"

Her brush was hovering, poised, just above the canvas where his groin was meant to go. "I'm quite at peace with it," he said.

"Perhaps the girth," she said as she began to paint again. "You elves are too thin."

She painted in silence for a moment, set the brush down, switched to another, dabbed it on the palette and moved back toward the left end of the painting where the strong light was. The yellow streaks she left blending atop the darkness, illuminating the piece. "I said she'll never love you," Alycine repeated.

Taesas watched her hand move, how she now brought in oranges and light browns to soften the harshness of the light, touching lightly the flesh to darken it where was appropriate in the glare.

"I know," he said. She knew he knew. They had had this conversation before, the last time they had met at a ball in Verchiel. She rarely got away from Ceraux. Her husband kept her on a very tight leash. But she would call on him whenever she could. It had been going on ten years they had been acquaintances. Hers were one of the few invitations he looked forward to receiving in Montsimmard.

"Then why do you continue? Now that you are to be First Enchanter, have you not exhausted Vivienne's utility to you?" Alycine switched brushes again. "She is a dangerous woman, Tae. For anyone to dabble half as long you in her affairs would be foolish."

"Perhaps I'm a romantic."

That made Alycine smile and stop her hand as it shook slightly with a stifled laugh of amusement. She continued. "How many broken hearts have you scattered across Orlais, now, used and discarded?" It was rhetorical. He didn't know. She didn't care for a real answer. He didn't care to find what the answer was. "I could love you."

"I know," he said. She knew he knew that too. Though their meetings had always been brief, very difficult to arrange, there had been an immediate connection. A mutual respect. A mutual understanding of their intents for one another and their place in Orlais. She had used his body. He had used her husband's influence. It was a simple transaction. Negotiated, completed and not needing to be discussed. The blunt acceptance had been a refreshing change of pace for both.

They led different lives. Those lives they each understood. Those lives they each lived. They did not complain. They did not fight. They claimed what joy they could.

The door of the bedroom opened, the rush of wind dancing the flames of the candles. Taesas did not move and Alycine continued to paint.

"Mother I-" the young woman stopped as she entered and spotted Taesas upon the bed. She quickly averted her eyes, not stealing a second glance at the elf. She had the willpower as well as the young, soft features of her mother. "Oh! I didn't realize-"

"Marjerie, Enchanter Taesas of Montsimmard. Tae, my daughter Marjerie," Alycine introduced without taking her gaze away from the canvas.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Enchanter," the girl said without turning her head to look at him again.

"Charmed, Lady Marjerie."

"Tae, isn't my daughter beautiful? Does she not remind you of me when we first met at the Winter Palaee all those years ago."

"With respect, she is a little young," Taesas said. The girl might be thirteen or fourteen years, he guessed. The daughter was the last of her five children. Lord D'Targele had wanted more. Alycine had put her foot down that four sons was enough. He hadn't fought by that point.

"You're no fun, Tae," she said. Lifting her brush and turning her head to look at him again before going after the paint again. "She's old enough to be matched. Give me your opinion, the Ardennes of Lydes or the Chanderelles of Val Foret?"

The Chanderelles were Comtes and had a claim on a large swatch of land in the south that could reasonably catapult him to Duke. But four or five other families also held claim and it would be difficult to carve a clean path to its title, no matter how failing the childless lord's health was. The Ardennes had no notable holdings now, but Lord Ardennes had spent many of his days in the company of Duke of Lydes and it was known he had collected many items of note for the Game. The succession crisis in Lydes was dragging as three suitors jockeyed for the title. Meanwhile, the minor lords were snatching what power they could and Lord Ardennes was leading the pack.

"Lord Ardennes is a better match," Taesas said. "I hear his second son is poor with a blade but skilled with a pen. A much safer talent in these troubled times of war."

Marjerie crossed her arms and stamped her foot. "Justine Chandrelle is handsome and he _wants_ to be with me!"

"Love is fleeting and silly, little bird," her mother said. "Enchanter Taesas and I are in love. But we are not together, are we?" Marjerie made a disgusted sound at that. "Perhaps I should just have her wed you, Tae. Enchanter Taesas is a renowned lover."

"She's a little youn-"

"Ewww, mother!"

"What do you want?" Alycine interrupted, done gaming her daughter.

"Margot and her father are traveling to Lydes this week for the faire. Her father said I could go along, with your permission."

"That will be fine," Alycine said, placing her brushes down and resting the palette on a side table. "Make sure to visit your father. You will also purchase a new dress and attend the theatre with Lady Ardenne and Mathieu while you're there."

Marjerie groaned again and stamped her foot again in a futile submission.

"What do you think?" Alycine said, turning the easel toward her daughter. Marjerie rolled her eyes and stormed out, stomping with her arms still crossed and slammed the door closed, causing the candles to flicker and flutter violently once more. Alycine sighed. "I don't know where I failed with that one."

Alycine turned the easel toward Taesas for his inspection. Her brush strokes were long and flowing, the figure on the bed amorphous and indistinct. She had not painted a face and her soft style made the pose look even more relaxed and lazy than it was. The shadow work that defined the curves and ridges of his body were good and the lighting at the top was well done. It was not gallery-quality, but she was not an artist.

"We're in love, are we?" he asked as he approached.

She reached for him, pulling his body to her, resting her left cheek upon his stomach, her hands dragging up the backs of his legs, her fingers stretching out to feel every muscled ridge of his body. She inhaled deeply, sighing at the touch of him. "Yes."

His hand reached down, fingers sliding through her smooth, black hair as he held her head close to his body. Her embrace was that of a woman long alone. Her touch betrayed her strength, calling for the warmth and affection that was always denied her.

"Then let me love you, Alycine."

He wondered if she felt the same hollow sensation in his touch as he led her toward the bed.


	10. Chapter 10

**Ten**

The path criss-crossed up the cliffs overlooking the water, narrow and painfully steep.

Vell's thighs were burning from the hike, unfortunately not from any fun activities. There had been little fun in the noble's house to be had. They were guests and even Vell knew there was a certainly level of civility that was required as a guest in someone else's house.

It hadn't stopped her from stealing a bottle of wine out of a rack that sat on a landing in the stairwell. Vell didn't even question why there was a wine rack there. Apparently _Orlesians_ might get thirsty from carrying themselves halfway down the stairs and need to re-inebriate themselves before making the rest of the trek.

She pulled the cork from the neck of the bottle and tossed it behind the rack, drinking straight out of the bottle as she wandered the hallways, looking at all of the junk the _Orlesians_ had collected. Lots of portraits of stuffy-faced _Orlesians_. Lots of portraits of long-dead, stuffy-faced _Orlesians._ Lots of portraits of fat, long-dead, stuffy-faced _Orlesians._

At least Alycine had a body. She got the impression that Taesas had snogged it before. But that couldn't be right. Could it?

"What are you doing, elf?" the snotty voice came from the end of the hallway after some loud stomping down the stairs.

The dark-haired teen had her arm crossed and her pouty lips pouting on her awkward face. She was that age where everything was growing too fast so that everything looked stretched, lanky and awkward. She already had the bitchy sneer of her mother.

"Looking at your fat grandmother," Vell said. She smiled to herself. Her face was feeling a little bit warm now. Half the bottle of white wine had disappeared. She placed the glass to her lips and took a little victory swig.

"Nice hair," the girl said sarcastically.

"Thanks," Vell said, taking the non-compliment as if it were. "Nice face. You must take after your dad." Vell smirked and let that one hang. She allowed herself a small fist pump. Score another one. She tipped the bottle to her lips again.

"Nice boobs. Still waiting for those to come in?" the girl fired back. Ouch. Right in the weak spot.

"Yeah, well have fun getting yours groped by some crusty old lord at your summer masquerade or ball or social of whatever the fuck you _Orlesians_ go to." Not her best stuff. But the imagery was disgusting enough.

But it appeared to have hit enough of a nerve with the teen. "Bitch," she said back. "I can have you arrested you know. You're an elf."

"Go ahead and try," Vell said as she slowly swirled the bottle in her hand, the wine spinning around the edges of the glass. Her left hand began to glow with a little black light. "See if you can get up the steps before I paralyze your prissy little ass."

The girl smiled as she looked at the bit of swirling energy wrapping around Vell's fingertips. Her stance changed, standing more upright, recrossing her arms in a less obstinate fashion. "I like you, elf. You're not boring like the others."

Vell tipped the bottle back against her lips again, pulled it away and wiped her lips with the back of her hand as she transferred it from her right to her left hand. She extended it out to her side, still looking at the painting on the wall and gave the bottle a little shake in offering.

"No thanks," the girl said. "Wine makes me puke. But I've got some herbs in my room. If you smoke. Way better than wine, anyway."

Vell let the bottle of wine slide down her palm, catching it by the long, thin neck before it fell completely out of her grasp. She pressed it down on the small wooden table pressed up against the wall, next to the decorative vase filled with fresh flowers. She turned her head toward the girl.

"That sounds lovely."

Vell yawned now, her eyes red from both the night's revelry and a lack of sleep. She had stayed up well into the night with the girl, passing her small pipe back and forth and chatting.

Marjerie had been stealing money from her mother's purse for more than three years without getting caught. Vell told her about that time she had managed to drop a few sprigs of deathroot into a Templar wine cask that left them all violently evacuating themselves for a day.

Marjerie had fenced one of her mother's diamond necklaces for herb money and then convincingly blamed it on a servant. Vell had once "accidentally" lost control of a spell and broke a Loyalist's jaw.

Marjerie let some noble boy from Val Foret feel her up behind the wishing well in the garden at his family's estate. Vell shared her one not-so-enjoyable experience with that smooth-talking apprentice Raul Oriel when convinced her to try doing it "like Emperor Florian and King Meghren" in the stacks of the library.

They raided the kitchen in the dark for cookies and gorged themselves, giggling on the floor of her bedroom

As far as _Orlesians_ went, Marjere D'Targele wasn't half bad. She'd grow out of it, though. She'd lose the fun side and all that would remain was the bitchiness. She's probably get married off to some noble somewhere and end up just like her mother. She was as good as dead.

Vell huffed behind the _Orlesian_ mage and his six-pack of Templars now, watching as they ascended the cliffs as if they were casually prancing on flat ground. Maybe the lack of the sleep and the drinking and whatever all that was last night were taking a toll on her. Maybe. Probably not. The cliff was just steep. She had puny little elf legs, after all. Apparently the Inquisition only went places that were uphill. How about a nice mission in a gently downhill-sloppy valley filled with some grass or flowers or something?

At night, they had been able to see the faint green glow of the Rift leaking from the cliffs nearby Ceraux. The city guardsmen turned their heads toward it whenever a cloud obscured the moon and the light seemed a little brighter in contrast.

The letters the Mages Collective had sent described the rift as small, dormant, and tucked within the mouth of a small cave in the cliffside. There had been a few demons when it was discovered, but the Collective mages had quickly vanquished them and waited. The rift hadn't fluctuated or broken open after a week. It just kind of sat there, swirling, bobbing a couple feet off the ground, pouring out a little sickly green light from time to time but otherwise not doing anything. The Collective was satisfied it was safe enough to work with.

They had been here a few weeks, it seemed. Ceraux either wasn't aware they were there or didn't care. Indeed, the guards on the walls had been watching the highway, not the narrow local road that wound into the hills. They had been watching for either the Empress or the Grand Duke. Vell didn't know which side Ceraux fought on, if either. She didn't really care, though. It didn't matter who won. Lots of poor, innocent people would be massacred in cities, either way. The elven parts of Halamshiral were smoking ruins now, she heard.

The winding path finally flattened out at a rocky plateau, wrapping around the cliff overlooking the Waking Sea. The cliff stretched up even higher around them, but they quickly came upon the small tent city splayed out under the shade of an overhang. More than a dozen mages were sitting around, chatting quietly, practicing spells, cooking in large pots boiling over open fires. Several popped up to their feet, grabbing staves as they spied the Templar armor encroaching on their camp.

"Templars!" one of the men shouted. He was wiry and had greasy hair. He wasn't Orlesian.

Taesas turned to his traveling companions. "Under no circumstances are you to draw a sword, understood?" he said to the six Templars.

Their leader, the salt-and-pepper human Matteo nodded. "They outnumber at least three to one," he said. "We'll keep it on a leash."

An older, gray-haired woman approached, with her staff still casually slung across her back. Unlike many of the other mages, she wore robes, a vivid royal blue. The robe was oversized, long, wide sleeves and a lot of volume around the legs. Lots of pockets. Vell got the impression there was a lot more hiding in there than just her body.

"That's far enough," she warned, holding up her hand. She had a very thick Orlesian accent. "We don't cross pass with many Templars. Some of our people don't care much for them either. If you come here as foes, I suggest you turn back."

Vell stepped forward, her hands up in front of her. "We're Inquisition," she said. "Grand Enchanter Fiona received your letter and sent me."

"Sent a little more than just you, it seems," the old mage said.

Taesas stepped forward. "We also represent the Inquisition. I'm Enchanter Taesas of the Circle of Montsimmard, here at the behest of Madam Vivienne, Enchanter to the Imperial Court, First Enchanter of Montsimmard and leader of the Loyalist mages. These Templars are at my disposal, if needed."

One of the men in the background snorted. "Never heard of a mage leading Templars around."

"Shut up, Tevan," a nearby woman scolded.

"You shut up. Templars can bugger themselves."

The old mage blinked, ignoring the commentary. "That's all quite impressive," she said. "We appreciate the Inquisition so promptly responding to our offer. But we didn't ask them to send any Templars. I'm afraid I'll have to ask your friends to return to Ceraux."

"Send away the Loyalist too!" the same man shouted.

"Yeah!" another man agreed.

The old mage turned to Vell, ignoring the others. "The Enchanter can stay, if he wishes. The Templars must go."

Vell turned around, her hands sweeping to try to shoo them away casually, smiling. She would be happy to send them away. She hadn't wanted them to come in the first place. But she, apparently, hadn't been allowed to argue that. Fiona sent one person. Of course the _Orlesians_ thought they needed a gaggle of ambassadors all dressed in their shiniest clothes.

"The Collective is tinkering with an unknown magic," Taesas argued. "We are here to observe only. My Templars will not interfere except at the sign of imminent danger. Anything could go wrong and a Templar might be able to protect your people."

The old mage was unimpressed. "We've been here for five weeks. The rift is stable. We are proceeding cautiously. There have been no incidents. We do not require your oversight," she said. "If you do not agree, then perhaps we were foolish to try to engage with the Inquisition."

Vell turned her head again with her teeth gritted. "Get. Them. Out of here." She hadn't exactly practiced being threatening. But she was at least halfway impressed with her own performance. The words kind of snaked out in a spitty growl as she pushed them out between her teeth.

The _Orlesian_ stared down the old mage for a moment, his eyes sizing her up. His gaze darted around the rest of the camps, Vell assumed counting the other mages. If he was considering jacking up the entire trip…

"Matteo, take your men back to Ceraux," he ordered.

The Templar leader was scanning the mages too. "Aye," he said. "We'll set up at the downtown inn."

"If we're not back in three days, return to Skyhold without us," Taesas said over his shoulder. The commander barked and order and the six Templars began to clink their way back down the hill. Taesas turned his gaze back to the Collective.

"Better?" His words were laced with _Orlesian_ disdain.

"I pity you," the old mage said to Vell, ignoring him again. "And you are?"

Vell realized she hadn't given her name. She had been cut off my Enchanter Shiny Shield and his goons before she had gotten a chance. "I'm Vell, from White Spire."

The old mage smiled with that. "Vell." She laughed. "We meet at last. I apologize that we never were able to get you out of White Spire."

Julion. It had to be Julion. She had never gotten to meet her contact with the Collective in the flesh. But she could remember sharply angled script and the big swooping "J" that tattooed the bottom of every missive. Her heart swelled with excitement.

"Don't worry, Julion," she said, turning her head to the side, running her finger across all six rings in her ear. "I managed to get out."

Julion took her meaning. "So I see," she said. Julion waved her hands behind her and the rest of the mages eased, going back to whatever they had been doing before. "Welcome to our commune, Vell. Taesas. You've arrived just in time. We've reached the end of our preparation. We will be running our final experiments soon. If all goes well, by tomorrow night, we will seal this rift."

Taesas raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware your research had advanced so far, so soon."

Julion laughed. "It's amazing what we can accomplish outside the gaze of the Chantry." The staff on her back black metal, symmetrical throughout, a set of winged flanges holding a milky white ball of crystal at the top. It was similar to what Vell had seen many senior mages carry. She hadn't talked much of herself in their missives, but Vell wondered now if she had once been at White Spire.

"We make extensive preparations for our own safety," Julion continued as she walked them through the commune. "We are able to anticipate many of the effects and prepare countermeasures. Even if something goes outside of boundaries during a test, we are able to respond in the moment without worrying about Templars cutting off the Fade. Such heavy-handed measures can actually cause more damage."

Taesas was quickly scanning all of the other mages there, his eyes darting up and down, scanning their features, their clothing, the staves they carried. What was he up to? "I'm not naive enough to believe there are no drawbacks," he said.

"There are accidents, sometimes," Julion conceded. "There have been times we lost good mages to possession. There are some who are lazy and try to cut corners. Or those who are amoral and turn to more, despicable, magic. But the biggest threat is and remains to be Templar hunters."

Vell smiled a big, antagonizing smile at Taesas to rub that in. He ignored it.

"May I review your research to this point? I have studied extensively in glyph-writing and wards. If there is a place I might be able to lend my expertise and improve the safety, I would be pleased to help."

"My apprentice Thelric keeps all of our records. You are free to peruse them, if you wish," Julion said.

That made Vell scrunch her eyes and look back at the older mage with disbelief. Just like that? Give up all their secrets? That didn't make any sense to her. He was a mage, but that was where the similarity between he and the Collective stopped. He might as well be a Templar. He certainly dressed like one.

"Reynaud is our expert on wards," Julion continued. "He studied extensively in Starkhaven before their Circle collapsed and the mages scattered. I will let him know you are interested in reviewing our defenses. I think you'll find him quite knowledgeable."

Julion whistled loudly and snapped her fingers twice and another mage came jogging up. Her hair was grey, although she wasn't nearly as old as Julion. She wore a dark blue robe with golden shoulder pads, a bit of white fur down around the knees. She wore a series of belts around her waist, each carrying pouches and vials that jingled quietly as she moved. Fiona had worn something similar on the way to Haven, Vell realized.

"Thelric," Julion said. "Please apprise Enchanter Taesas of our research on the efforts to open and close the rifts. Answer any questions he has. When he's done, introduce him to Reynaud. Tell him it's on my request."

Thelric nodded and motioned for Taesas to follow. "Thank you," he said simply. Vell wondered if he was as confused by the generosity as she was as he walked away. As they left out of earshot, Vell couldn't stop herself from asking.

"So you're just going to let him get his Loyalist mitts on everything?" Vell said.

Julion chuckled quietly as she began walking again, Vell falling into step next to her. "He'll see only what he needs to see." They passed two mages who were standing guard at a narrow part of the path before it bent around an outcropping of rock. Julion nodded to both. "The Inquisition will want to know about our efforts to close the rifts. No offense meant, but they will respect his assessment of our abilities on that topic more than yours."

Vell wasn't offended. She didn't run experiments in White Spire. She didn't study. She didn't research. The only reason she had trained her abilities was in anticipation of the one day when she would need them to fight. When that day had come, her hands spewing waves of fire down the narrow corridors of the barracks, the black entropic energy eating away at Templars like a swarm of corrosive insects, she had been glad for the effort. She didn't know anything about wards or shields or any of that. That stuff was boring. A ward wasn't going to blow a Templar's head off his shoulders.

"But, Grand Enchanter Fiona will want an assessment of our, other, pursuits," the old mage said with a grin. "Her last letter contained some details of the attack on Haven. She said you charged the Templar lines."

Of course she did. "Of course I did," Vell said. "Did she say how many bodies I left behind me, too?"

"She did," Julion said. "And that's why I want to show you this."

They turned the corner, stepping just inside the lip of a yawning cave. Another two mages were sitting casually nearby, their eyes occasionally glancing up, but otherwise ignoring the small, swirling, pulsing hole in the Fade floating nearby. The rift bent and twisted, spilling green-white light from its edges, the tear itself looking like the distorted, filmy edges of a soap bubble.

Vell had seen a few of the rifts on the road. From afar. But now she was standing less than twenty feet away from it. There was no heat from it, like she might have expected. But she could feel the wash of power seeping through tear in the Veil. So raw. So overwhelming. Vell had felt the rush of mana pouring through her in battle, but it was nothing as intense as this.

"You feel that, don't you?" Julion asked.

Vell could feel her heart speeding up in her chest, a mix of fear and excitement. Her fingers tingled. She lifted them and little spurts of flame licked off her fingertips without her even summoning it forth. She felt like a cup overflowing and spilling onto the table. "Yeah," she said. A tongue of flame licked out a little higher off her hand, bending and twisting up toward the rift. For the first time in her life, her willpower was being bent trying _not_ to summon her magic. "Yeah, I feel that."

Julion pulled her staff off her back into her right hand. She looked up at the rift and began slowly sweeping her left hand through the air, painting what looked like a giant "S" in front of her. She lifted the head of the staff and the rift shook, a small burst of white light and force pulsing out of it. Vell bent and covered her face out of instinct at the sudden explosion.

"Don't worry," Julion urged. "It is safe."

A small tendril of that green-white light snaked out of the rift, swirling around the head of her staff, being pulled into the focusing crystal. Vell straightened up, but her heart was racing even faster now. The pulse of energy she could feel across her body was incredible.

"The energy I'm pulling now is just a drop of what lies within this rift," Julion explained, her left hand sweeping out across her body as the tendril of energy cut from the rift. She turned, ducking the head of the staff toward Vell. There was so much energy there she almost felt sickened by it. "We have gone, much, much further than even this. In order to close the rift, the energy a mage must channel is exponentially beyond anything a mage in the Circle would touch. But we are close and I believe it is possible."

Vell looked at the staff and again at the rift. Nothing was impossible with magic. She had always known, always believed that. She was in awe. "What can you do with it?"

Julion liked that question, a big smile stretched across her old face. "Shall I show you?" she asked. She pointed to the ground. "That stone, pick it up and throw it over the cliff for me."

Vell took a step and bent, lifting up the stone. It fit comfortably in her hand. But it was the heavy rock of the cliffs, quite solid. It was the kind of stuff people build castles with. Julion stepped toward the edge of the cliff and Vell followed, stopping next to her. The old mage lifted her staff in front of her, the crystalled-head of it pointed out toward the sea. "Go ahead. I'm ready."

Vell wound up and heaved the rock high into the air. Julion lifted the staff, pointing it at the stone, tracing its arc through the air. The rock peaked, begin to arc down toward the water. Falling, falling, and Julion waited.

Then, a whoosh.

The green light shot off the head of the staff, the shot causing wind to blow back across them from the force. The small ball of green light twisted through the air, turning as it tracked the stone. Vell watched with wide eyes as it struck the rock she had throw.

A brilliant flash of green light caused her to blink, followed by a roar that sounded like someone detonating a fireball in her ear. Vell's feet rocked and the cliff before her rumbled and vibrated as the shockwave passed back across them. She knew she was grinning like an idiot at the fireworks display.

But she couldn't help might admire the giant cleft in the water, separating the water down a seam like a tailor dragging shears through fabric. The waves of water pushed out from around the impact, two walls of water shoved up on either side. A second later, the water began falling back into place, foaming as it spilled into the giant wound Julion's spell had left in it.

The old mage pressed the butt of her staff into the stone and placed both of her hands around it, admiring the frothy sea as is healed. "The rifts are our teachers, a source of power. But they are not necessary. This power, this technique, any mage can learn it, with the right knowledge and training. Some day, even when all the rifts are gone, we will still be able to utilize this magic."

Julion sighed to herself. Vell thought it was the kind of sigh that a person might make after they have accomplished something great, like finishing a book, casting an incredibly difficult spell or coming down off the best orgasm of your life.

"The greatest discovery of our age, and we still understand so little of it. An entire new school of magic, developed directly from everything we are learning here. Rift magic."

Vell crossed her arms over her chest, looking at the sea, still feeling the power of the rift washing across her back.

"I want it," she said.

Julion nodded.

"Then I shall teach you."


	11. Chapter 11

**Eleven**

Taesas turned his head at the flash of green light, looking out across the sea as the crack of thunder boomed around them and the stone vibrated beneath his feet.

The burst of magic felt different, foreign, as he felt it out with his sixth sense. It felt strangely like the wild pulse of the swirling rifts he had experienced along the road. The Collective was doing a poor job of being inconspicuous. Taesas supposed that was the point. Their leader, Julion, had been happy to send him away to review their hastily scratched journals and pages. Her methods of getting rid of him were as blunt as her foolish display of magic.

"I'm not seeing anything here about the new magic you're developing," Taesas said blandly to Julion's assistant, Thelric, who was hovering over his shoulder as he sat down in the small chair and leafed through pages of the journals.

The books did contain extensive detail of their preparation, calculations and sketches of different glyphs and wards they were using, descriptions of the sensations they could feel as they tampered with the rift. This particular book had been kept by Thelric herself. It was well-organized and on-point. Factual information, simply stated, no wandering opinion or subjective commentary etched into the page. Many of the scholars in the Circle could learn a thing or two from her about proper scientific bookkeeping.

"I'm not sure what you mean, Enchanter," Thelric said. "I have provided you with all of our materials."

"Of course."

Taesas didn't look up as he turned another page, scanning a detailed chart of timing and approximate feedback from the rift as gauged by monitoring the stress of some carefully-crafted neutralization glyphs. This Reynaud had crafted the glyphs to light as they absorbed particular power levels, so they could easily track how much excess energy was pouring out of the rift. The method was actually quite ingenious, Taesas thought. An idea he might have to steal for his own future experiments when he returned to Montsimmard. It could be a novel way to gauge how well an apprentice had control over his or her magic, by collecting and monitoring how much magic was bleeding around the edges of their spells.

"I must say, Thelric, your notes are immaculate," he said as he scanned another set of experiments focusing on trying to, carefully, pry open the rifts. Julion had hypothesized that without fully opening a rift, it could not fully be closed. Such a practice had apparently be implemented in closing the Breach at the Temple of Sacred Ashes as well. The Collective, working independently, had reached a similar conclusion.

"Thank you, Enchanter," she said.

"Julion spoke of an attempt to close the rift. Tell me, how does she plan to accomplish this?" he asked. Two of the mages suffered minor burns during one of the early opening experiments. An unexpected surge in feedback from the rift. Nothing serious.

"Julion would be the one to fully explain it," Thelric said, in the proper submissive statements of the servant she was. "In simple terms, Julion believes that in order to seal the rift, a mage must draw a large amount of its power out, weakening the rift, before channeling it back in the opposite direction. The sealing technique utilizes the power of rift, but executes similarly to how a Templar might use his power to ward off demons in an attempt to strengthen a weakened Veil."

Taesas nodded slowly to himself. "And is that how you believe Inquisitor Trevelyan does it?"

Thelric wrung her hands together. "As we have not had a chance to examine and work with the Inquisitor, I cannot-"

"You do not believe this course of action will succeed?" Taesas interrupted. The doubt was so apparent in her voice that he did not need to let her ramble on.

That made Thelric wring her hands even more. "It is not my place to presume-"

"Assuming it were your place," Taesas interrupted again. The assistant was so off balance. If this were a social event in the Empire, she would do well to feign illness and remove herself from the situation. Thelric had never played the Game. She had no defense. "In confidence, of course. I do not seek to interfere in your affairs here. But considering that my safety may be jeopardized, I would like to know what to expect."

Thelric turned her head from side to side, checking to see who else was there. They were alone enough. "I do not expect our effort to close the rift will be successful," she admitted. Taesas was honestly a little surprised by her candid speech. She truly did not play the Game. "Although, let me quantify that by saying I do not believe we are at any risk. I only suspect that our effort to close the rift will fail. In time perhaps, but not yet."

Taesas closed the journal and passed it back to Thelric. The information he was looking for was not being provided to him. Based on her assessment and the notes he had read, he had come to the same conclusion. Taesas did not believe that the Collective could not succeed, in time, but they currently lacked the data and understand to succeed now. If they did manage to close the rift, it would be by accident, and to their detriment. It would lead to haste and carelessness and a success now might lead to further calamity later. "Still, a failure might reveal valuable insight that could not otherwise be obtained except by failing."

Thelric smiled at his assessment. "Knowledge does not progress without trial and error," she agreed.

Taesas had not expected her to be quite so talented. Her poise and intelligence was unexpected. The Collective that he had known prior was merely a loose association of unfocused hedge wizards and apostates with no legitimate goals except to try to evade the grasp of the Chantry. The hot-headed man who hadn't been able to keep his mouth shut during their arrival appeared to be of that cut, but Thelric and Julion appeared to be a very different sort.

If a woman like Thelric could be found in Montsimmard, she might be worthy of the title of Enchanter and be capable of passing her knowledge to the apprentices. But she chose to run around the woods under the illusion of freedom. The loss was hers.

"I'm ready to speak with your glyph-master Reynaud, if he is available," Taesas said.

* * *

The magefire burnt in the steel braziers placed around the edges of the cave, the dull blue light clashing with the greenish glow of the rift.

All twenty of the Collective mages were gathered in the wide cavern, nineteen in a ring around the rift while Julion stood a few paces away from the rift. She had changed into a thinner, sleeveless robe that had none of the pockets, pouches or belts of her previous garb. Her bare feet stood in the center of the glowing glyph on the ground below her as she looked around the cavern.

Taesas and Vell stood on the outskirts of the Circle in a gap between two of the mages. He had cast his own set of glyphs at their feet, with the blessing and oversight of Reynaud, just in case. Reynaud was much younger than Taesas might have expected, a thirty-something mage from a noble house in Ghislain. His family had hidden his magic for decades and hired private tutors from the Collective to train him outside of the Circle. But the Game had turned on his family, his magic was exposed and he fled with the Collective before the Templars stormed his family compound.

He assumed his father had been imprisoned for a time for harboring an apostate. But Reynaud spoke of the affair with a casual indifference. He still corresponded discreetly with his sister and brother in-law, not daring to send anything back to his family home.

Taesas had spent the afternoon discussing the defensive preparations and again, had been impressed with the young man's skillset. His forms were well-constructed and solid under pressure. Reynaud had invited the opportunity for Taesas to attempt to stress or break his glyphs. None had unraveled under Taesas's prodding, even when he thought to pulse out his energy in uneven, sporadic bursts. The barriers all responded well, even to the sudden spikes of energy.

The Collective was most concerned about unintended breaks in the rift that might cause it to spew demons again. Many of the wards were erected to ward off and trap any demons that might slip through, while others were intended to regulate the output of the rift. Even Taesas had to admit, the preparation was thorough and clinical. Again, unexpected.

"Are we ready to begin?" Julion asked.

"Output from the rift has been stable over the last hour. Minimal oscillation. She's calm," a younger man with blonde hair and a purple robe said.

"I detected no notable demon activity on the other side, Julion," an older elf woman with silver-grey hair said. "We are clear."

"My four are ready to absorb and disperse any excess energy," a middle-aged man with a long, reddish-brown beard said. "For your information, Petyr is standing in for Ivania tonight. She felt she could not center her mind and asked to sit this one out."

"My apologies, Julion," said the dark-haired woman next to him with ice-blue eyes that were even more vibrant in the hazy magelight. "It is my failing."

"Petyr, are you prepared?" Julion asked with a note of concern.

"I am," said the sandy-blonde haired mage next to Ivania.

"He's been training with us and we've briefed him on what to expect," the bearded man said. "He'll be fine. Ivania is ready to assist in an emergency."

"My shapers are ready, as well, Julion," said the young woman had had scolded the hot-mouthed mage during their arrival. "Let us know if you need any assistance controlling the flow and we will act."

Reynaud, who was standing to the left of Taesas, spoke now. "All of the glyphs are prepared and checked. I've bumped up the strength due to the expected increase in tonight's load. We shouldn't have any issues. I'll keep you apprised of any issues, as always."

Thelric sat at a small desk the others had dragged in, her pen poised at the page with a lamp burning nearby. She was scratching down a few items. "Rift stable. Fade stable. All sections reporting ready. We are clear to begin, Julion."

Taesas pulled his staff and rested it before him, just in case. Their preparation was as practiced and mechanical as it appeared in Thelric's notes from earlier. Vell crossed her arms next to him, slouching on her back leg, her lips twisted and reading impatient. He assumed that boredom would fade when the light show began. She was so much like a child, distracted by shiny objects.

"Very good," Julion said as she stretched her arms. "Let the record show tonight we are beginning our fifth experiment aimed at controlled opening of the rift. Tonight's goals will be to get the rift open in less than a minute, further improve dampening of the pulling effect of the rift, increase power output by fifty percent and hold at that level for three minutes. We begin on my mark."

The various Collective mages shifted into their ready positions, all of their eyes focused upward on the lazily twisting rift in the air before them. Taesas pushed a little mana into his staff, the rod absorbing the energy and holding it for a quick-cast on a barrier. He pulled in enough energy to protect both him and Vell, since she was hardly paying attention to her own safety. She would be killed by her own ineptitude.

Julion took a deep breath, wrapping her hands around her staff and lifting the head up toward the rift. "Here we go," she said, taking another breath. "Ready yourselves. On my mark." A short pause. "Mark!"

Julion thrust her staff upward, a bend of green energy making an instant connection to the rift. The amorphous rift bent and twisted toward her, the power pulling toward her with a pulse of light. The rift began to spin slightly, the bouncing beam of energy twisting around like bend of lightning but slowly calming and being forced into a more steady, defined stream.

Taesas could already feel the amount of energy pouring out of the rift, levels well beyond anything advisable in the Circle except by the most senior and most experienced mages. Such experiments were augmented by lyrium, with a full wing of Templars standing vigilant. Here, there were only mages. Not a Templar around and energy bounding at levels that were difficult to comprehend.

The crackling green energy now hummed at a low frequency, vibrating through Taesas's head as he watched Julion gain control over the stream. "I am now preparing to open."

"Everything looks normal here," Reynaud said, glancing over the glowing runes underfoot around the cavern. "You're clear to open."

"Opening on my mark," Julion said. "Ready… mark!"

The pulse of force from the rift tossed Taesas's hair back, lifting the cape from the back of his armor like a sudden gust of wind. The burst of energy felt like it doubled what was pouring out before as a small black hole began to open at the end of Julion's beam. The air tremlbed like a long-low rumble of thunder, the sound of the Veil itself tearing open before his eyes.

There was a whistling and the wind changed, a pull of the vacuum as the the rift began to suck in the physical world. It felt not unlike the spiraling pull of the force magic Taesas was adept in, the spiraling energy sucking into a singularity.

"Preparing to dampen," the bearded mage said. "Ilycia, you and I will quell the force. Josef, Petyr, dissipate the excess on my mark. Ready… Mark!"

The bearded-mage and a woman opposite the ring from him lifted their staves, making a connection to the rift. The edges of the slowly growing hole in the Veil twisted at the intervention, bending. Taesas could feel another wave of raw energy emitting at the interference and glyphs around the feet of the two mages began to light with white light. Next to each, the other two mages - assumedly Petyr and Josef - began to glow with a slight green light, a light haze wicking off their bodies as they sapped and pushed the excess away harmlessly.

The sucking action of the rift lightened, the edges of Tae's cape dangling back down across his back. The wind he felt was now little more than a light breeze across his cheek.

"Maker's shit," Vell said next to him, just loud enough to be heard over the humming din of the rift, lifting her hand to feel the pull of the rift across her arm. She had a big smile stretching across her face now.

Taesas might have felt the same, except in different language. The wildness of the rift felt incredibly calm now, the beam of energy Julion pulsed lightly but otherwise felt as under control as a senior mage carefully drawing mana across the Veil. The stark difference was in magnitude. The rift energy felt many times more intense than the mana he was accustomed to. If the Collective had been able to attain this level of control over a span of few weeks, he feared what might be capable over a longer period of time, if the rebels learned it. Or, perhaps worse, Tevinter.

"Hold a moment," Reynaud said next to him, stepping out of his place to get a closer look at his glyphs. He crouched low to the ground, eyeing the thin, white-blue lines of lyrium drawn onto the stone. The light flickered slightly, a small haze rising up like steam off the narrow design. He sat silently, just for a moment, watching, before standing back up. "We're good. I thought I saw this glyph beginning to unravel."

Julion turned her gaze back to the rift. "We'll now open this further and increase the output. Clea, are you ready?"

The young woman who had previously spoke as the leader of the "shapers" pushed the sleeves of her robes back behind her elbows. The other mages around her also readied their staves next to her. "We are ready at your signal, Julion."

The leader looked around at the ring of mages around her. She shook her left arm as if it were growing tired with fatigue and wrapped her hand tightly around the staff, shifting her feet as if to brace herself.

"Ready to open the rift to just below maximum. On my mark…" Julion's fingers lifted and reset themselves around the staff and all of the mages appeared to shift anxiously. Their faces all turned in hard looks, their eyes lifting up toward the rift. All except Reynaud, whose eyes were firmly planted on his glyphs. They all had the look that they were ready to take on a great challenge. This was the moment.

"Mark!"

The blast of light and wash of power came on so suddenly and so strong that Taesas instinctively lifted his arm to cover his face. The cape whipped around his side again at the renewed pull of the rift as the beam to Julion's staff grew brighter, fast, powerful pulses of rift energy pulsing across it.

The Collective acted as one entity. Julion was drawing incredible amount of power by the second, while the other mages worked to dampen the feedback from the tear in the Veil and the shapers were exerting their force to keep Julion's connection contained in a stable beam.

The glyphs began to glow brighter, their warding magic being pressed with the sudden, serious increase in power. Reynaud's eyes darting around, closely watching each one, his hands quickly working back and forth pulling forward neutralizing magic through more conventional means and tossing them out in the areas feeling the most stress from the wild magic.

But most of all, Taesas was stunned by the power. Julion kept dragging it out of the depths of the Fade and it just kept coming. The green energy was swirling around her staff, being pulled through the focusing crystal and distributed across the pole. Green haze whirled around her in a flaming, spinning aura as she continued to draw it all across the Veil.

Not even very lightly diluted lyrium could yield this type of power. He had once taken part in a ritual, an excursion to the Fade as part of an experiment by another Enchanter. They wanted to fall into one meticulously charted section of the Fade that Enchanter Ellion had traveled to for years in order to test an attempt to try to fire a narrow beam of highly-focused energy all the way to the floating ruins of the Black City. Six Enchanters had taken part, using a gallon and a half of carefully treated lyrium to direct their consciousness to the right spot and fuel the beam.

And the experiment had failed. Even with a specially calculated spell of low-power, highly-focused energy, even the vast amount of lyrium hadn't been enough for the spell the reach the Black City. It never seemed that far away, but the depth of the Fade was incredibly deceiving.

The rift, in comparison, seemed endless, and the control the Collective exerted over it was nothing short of incredible. Perhaps the Collective was more of a legitimate danger than an inconvenient nuisance. If they had discovered how to channel this level of power into fuel for spells, they could be increasingly dangerous.

The power output began to pull back as the opening of the rift slowed. The edges of the tear were vibrating rapidly, but Taesas could see the hazy features of the Fade through the gaping wound in the Veil now. Blood mages and demons were capable of sundering the Veil, but never before had Taesas been aware of someone able to carefully and slowly open a portal to the other side. His eyes were fixed on the tear, his mind racing with old theories on the Veil, lengthy treatises and grand theories on the mechanism and practice of magic that all were now seriously in question.

The tension in Julion abated as she stood slightly more upright, her grip loosening on her staff. Her staff now appeared to be little more than a glowing green stick it was so saturated with magic. Her shoulders moved slowly up and down, her breath labored. Some of the others mages around the circle were also showing signs of fatigue.

"We will hold here," Julion announced. "Excellent work, everyone. The transmission was very smooth and secure. Let's quickly draw our readings and shut it down for the night."

Thelric's pen was so quickly darting across the page that she barely had time to look up. Reynaud quickly scrambled to his glyphs, observing each and recording. Other mages were probing the rift with minor spells, working with crystals, some siphoning bits of power off of Julion's staff and running various smaller tests. Everything was being done quickly, carefully, scientifically.

"I guess that's the end of the show." Vell's voice caught Taesas off guard. He had forgotten she was standing there next to him. She had been quietly gawking at the display of power the whole time. She only saw what was happening before her. She was not trying to assess it. He doubted she even could comprehend what might be at stake, even if she cared. "Pretty amazing."

He didn't dignify it with a response.

* * *

The revelry of the night was winding down.

The Collective had chosen to celebrate another flawless test by tapping an entire cask of wine. They drank and laughed and loudly talked back and forth about everything that had happened. Vell sat in the midst of it all, drinking glass after glass and eating up their excitement.

Taesas, meanwhile, had retreated to the bedroll they offered him by himself. He had sat down on the padded mat, his knees up and bent, his forearms resting on top of them. It had been hours at this point. And he sat there, replaying everything in his mind. The process. The power. The possibilities. The consequences. The scope of the Collective. The influence of Julion. The new magic.

This was not the Game, but he cycled through all of the details in the same manner he might as trying to think of how the best way to destroy a political foe. He needed to consider everything he knew, review everything he did not know, examine the variables and plot out likely outcomes.

But his mind was clouded. All he could think of over and over was that incredible burst of power when Julion had cracked open the rift. It was so sudden, so intense, so raw. So dangerous. If his Templars were here, butchering the Collective mages in their sleep might have been a viable and necessary option. It was one that was not available, at the moment.

"Have you moved all night?" Vell asked as she stumbled over, her feet criss-crossing as she swayed in the dark past his bedroll. "You look like your head is going to explode."

"There is much I need to process," he said glibly.

As her feet found her own bedroll, next to his, she plopped down onto the pad harder than anyone might normally lower themselves to the ground. She swore, then laughed, then propped herself up, leaning back on her elbows to balance herself. "Sounds boring."

"The First Enchanter did not send me here to drink wine," he reminded her. "I am tasked with examining the research of the Collective and-"

"Blah, blah, blah," Vell interrupted, rolling her eyes. "You _Orlesians_ are so boring. Look at how far that staff is rammed up your ass. You're so stiff."

Vell laughed, lifting up her right arm, her finger pointing in the general direction of his face, although she couldn't seem to focus enough to point directly at which part of his face she was trying to point at. Her finger bobbed up and down. "Just look at your face. So tense. Like you need to get off."

"That's not-"

"Maybe you need to go back and give Lady D'Targa-whatever another ride." She clenched her fists and pulled them down, thrusting her hips up as she bit down on her lower lip.

"You are quite drunk," Taesas said. "You embarrass yourself."

"Don't tell me you want me to blow you off," she said, making a lewd stroking gesture in front of her mouth.

"No."

"Oh, excuse me, I forgot. I should be more formal," Vell said, clearing her throat. "Ahem. Lord Enchanter Taesas Shiny Shield of the Most Glorious and Accomplished Circle of Montsimmard, thou lookest quite tense. Perhaps thine lordship would enjoy if this humble servant knelt before thee and fellated thine illustrious Enchanter's staff?"

"Good night," Taesas said, stretching down to the bedroll and turning onto his side with his back pointed at Vell.

Vell gave one loud laugh and clapped her hands. "Looks like I've gone and pissed him off now," she said to herself, adding a not-so-quiet, gurgling belch. "Just as well anyway. We don't screw elves. Right? Right. No elves."

She shuffled upon her own bedroll. Vell grew still. After a few moment, he could hear the quiet whistling of her breathing, the melodic even in and out of a woman sleeping.

She was an embarrassment to Orlais. She was an embarrassment to the Circle. She was an embarrassment to the Inquisition.

Yet, if left unchecked, she and the rest of Fiona's malcontents might be the next to inherit the secrets of the rifts so casually cracked by the Collective.

Taesas lay on his bedroll, many hours into the night, but he could not find the peace to sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

**Twelve**

The dawn air was cool and wet so close to the sea, her skin prickled as her hands slowly cut through the air.

Her hands moved on memory, forms that she had traced over and over daily for years. The fingers on her left hand were pressed together in a flat blade, the middle finger slightly bent at the middle knuckle, creating a stronger base through the entire hand. Her wrists crossed as she slowly shifted her weight to her back leg, bending at the knee, sweeping her left hand slowly out and across her body as her right hand curled into a fist at her hip. Vell slowly exhaled as she moved the strike across, her wrist snapping at the end of the movement as she let go of the last of her air.

Her hips and feet rotated, turning it to the other side, her wrists crossing at her chest, her right hand forming the knife, sweeping out to the opposite side.

Her muscles felt loose and her head wasn't thumping this morning. The Collective's wine was fruity and not too heavy. It got her feeling good and left her feeling good the next morning. _That_ was magic.

Vell's hips turned again as she moved to the next part of the form, her eyes closed as she went through each motion. Wake up the muscles. Focus the mind. Calm the spirit. She could still hear the voice in her head, the same as she heard it the first time in her youth.

Even now, she could still feel Angelo tracing the same steps next to her.

She couldn't help but let the rift creep into her thoughts. She knew she was supposed to clear her mind. But how could she not think about the rift? Julion and the Collective had pulled and pulled and it just kept coming. It just washed over and enveloped her. She couldn't help but feel the tingle, excitement, arousal.

Watching the Collective work the rift, it gave her that same feeling she got whenever she was about to do something she wasn't supposed to be doing. Climbing into the small, secret nook in the ceiling of the library while Templars shouted and scoured the tower for her. Sneaking into Angelo's bunk in the middle of the night, smelling the exotic scent of his sweat, her lower lip caught between his teeth as her hand slipped under the waistband of his underwear. Holding a swirling ball of fire in her hand, watching the Templar's body freeze in that moment of realization that he was had, right before smashing the burning magic into his helmet.

The _Orlesian_ stood there looking like someone was murdering children in front of him. Oh, that had nearly been as good. The look on his face. He knew. He couldn't not know.

He was _afraid._

Vell's hands rose slowly from her hips, palms slowly turning over, her fingers all stretched out in a fan, the tension in her shoulders as she slowly touched her index fingers and thumbs together, pushing out her breath. She held the pose.

"That's unexpected."

His voice was an unwelcome interruption. Vell opened her eyes now, spotting the grey stone cliff wall about a foot before her outstretched hands. She took one more deep breath and turned her head to look over her left shoulder. The Enchanter was sitting up on his bedroll. The blanket was still draped over his legs, but his chest was bare. He was built like a man. Of course he was. Everything about him had to be just perfect.

"Were you watching me?" She felt violated by his gaze. She would have sought somewhere more private, but the Collective camp was small and she didn't want to wander away.

"I was," he said as he sat up more, smoothing out a shirt on his lap.

"A friend taught me," she blurted, then scowled. "It's none of your damn business."

Taesas chuckled to himself as his arms snaked into the sleeves of the shirt and he pulled it over his head. "I was only going to say I was surprised to see that you were awake this early."

He smirked. An _Orlesian_ smirk. He was playing his damn Game again and he obviously thought he just scored some points or a goal or whatever they did to keep track of who was winning and losing.

The sun had barely come up. Vell woke up about this time every day. As soon as the light began to creep in, she awoke. Even in recent days when she drunk herself into a stupor, as soon as the sun peaked the horizon, she was awake. He didn't need to know that, though. Prick.

"I'm surprised you slept at all," she fired back. "Did you piss yourself over night? Have bad dreams that the scary rift is going to swallow you up?"

Taesas's smirk fell away as he began to fold his blanket. "I actually slept quite well, thank you."

"Awww, and here I thought you would be tossing and turning without your Templar boyfriends jerking you off before bed," she spat.

Taesas just shook his head slightly at her antagonism. "Of course," he said, dismissing it. He stood, stretching his arms across his chest and rolling his shoulders. "If you'll excuse me."

And, like that, he was gone.

Julion passed Taesas heading the opposite direction, the older mage giving a slight nod to the Enchanter as she walked past him. Vell adjusted her jacket as the leader of the Collective came up.

"He's a little stuffy, isn't he?" Julion asked.

Vell snorted. "That doesn't even begin to describe it."

Julion stuck a spoon into a small bowl and passed it to Vell. It was filled with a beige-colored, sticky porridge that smelled as bland as it looked. Still, Vell stirred it and took a bite, which only confirmed its plainness. She dipped it back into the bowl.

"Can't blame him," Julion said. "It's a consequence of the life. I might have ended up the same way, in time, if I hadn't gotten out of Montsimmard."

Vell bit her spoon and quickly jerked it out of her mouth. "You were in Montsimmard?"

"They were going to make me an Enchanter," Julion said with a nod. "In my youth, I happened to look a lot like one of the First Enchanter's political rivals. He hatched a scheme that he was going to have the woman abducted and killed. He needed me to stand in temporarily after they kidnapped her, then feign illness and be taken away from the party."

That all sounded downright _Orlesian_ to Vell. Fancy party? Check. Murder? Check. Ladies fainting to get out of awkward social situations? Check.

"I was hiding in an upstairs bedroom waiting for the First Enchanter to fetch me, listening to the music and chatter from downstairs," Julion continued. "But then I realized that I was alone. The window was cracked open. The ledge wasn't too far of a drop to the alley below. And like the foolish little bird I was, I took the first opportunity to fly."

Vell stopped midway to her mouth with another bite of porridge. Did Julion just use the word "foolish" to describe herself ditching the Circle? If Vell could have found a window remotely close to the ground that wasn't triple-locked, she would have jumped, not thought twice and never looked back.

"But you're glad you ran, right?"

Julion smiled, but it was the kind of smile that people made when they were thinking about all the reasons they should say it wasn't a good idea, even though they knew in their heart it was a good idea. It was the kind of smile mages would get when telling a funny story about some awesome romp they had in the stacks, before telling you about the earful and worse they got from the Templars after it was discovered. Not the best idea, but worth it.

"How about I teach you the basics about the rift?" Julion said, declining to respond to Vell's question. "There are certain things I need to show you before we close it tonight."

* * *

It was another night, but Vell could swear everything in the cave looked exactly the same as it did last night. The Collective mages all stood in the exact same spots. She and Enchanter Soureyes were in the same place. The rift bobbed and swirled in the same lazy way it had last night.

The only thing that was different tonight was that Vell couldn't help but smile as she looked at the slowly shifting mass of energy floating in the center of the ring. Julion had showed her how to touch its unending power, just a touch, but even now she could not shake the feeling of electric excitement that coursed through her.

It had felt like a shock, a sudden jolt, as she made a connection to the rift, the thin, greenish stream of energy arcing from her fingertip to the rift. She trembled, feeling the warmth and energy of the rift wrapping around her hand and coursing up her arm. It felt like she dipped her entire arm in warm water, soothing and comfortable.

For the first time in her life, Vell tried to pay attention to her someone trying to teach her about magic.

Now the rift lazily swirled before her. This one would be gone by the end of the night. Closed. But the rift was only necessary to learn the initial lessons. Now, Julion assured her, the magic could be practiced, developed and strengthened without it. They did not require the rifts to work their magic. The rift had merely opened their eyes, alerting them to a power that had always been sitting there, just across the Veil.

Enchanter Assface had taken the day to return to Ceraux to meet with the Templars, no doubt to cry to them about wanton disregard for safe use of magic and violations of the Chant of Life and Andraste's nipples they made him sleep on a thin pad on the ground like an animal! Fine enough. It had given her the entire morning to study with Julion without any scowling yet unflappably polite interruptions.

"Brothers and sisters," Julion said. "Tonight is the night. Tonight, we will prove that the rifts are not beyond our capabilities. We will show all of Thedas that nothing is beyond the scope of magic."

There were far fewer glyphs on the ground tonight. Only one below Julion's feet and one below the rift. When their lessons had ended, Julion had excused herself to ready herself for the night. She needed rest and focus if she was to succeed. When the leader of the Collective mages had gone to prepare, Vell sat crosslegged at the edge of the cliff, nibbling on lunch, unable to take her awe-widened eyes from the rift.

And then it was dark. And Enchanter Jerknuts had returned and everything was set.

"Our careful efforts, our preparation, our intense study has all led to this point. All of our collective knowledge, I wield it and I will use it to shut this rift."

The other mages nodded, their faces a mix of joy and determination. To the last, they were all ready. Standing. Waiting. Ready for the final act.

"It is imperative that I take on this burden alone tonight," Julion continued. "Reynaud had volunteered to serve as my second. No one is to interfere with the process tonight except at his word. We have discussed tonight's task at length and I trust him with my safety."

"We shall not interject," the woman with ice-blue eyes and dark hair, Ivania, said. "We will be here if you need us."

Julion nodded. "Very well. Let us not delay. Are we ready?"

The others began to rattle through their preparations as they had the night before. Rift is calm. No demons. Mages standing by to sap or control energy, if needed. Glyphs stable and ready. Everything ready, Thelric reported, jotting down the notes in her journals.

Like the night before, Enchanter Pissdick drew his staff and held it before him at the ready. Vell wondered to herself, what was he more scared of - that something would go horribly awry or that they succeeded? She smiled to herself. Both must be terrifying prospects to him.

"Very well," Julion said, taking a deep breath. "We begin on my mark."

The older mage gripped her staff with both hands, slid her feet out to form a sturdy base and bent her elbows to brace for the incoming force. Her chest lifted once more, slowly, deeply as she lifted her eyes to the rift.

"Opening on my mark," Julion said. A pause. "Mark!"

Vell leaned forward to feel the wash of energy as the rift burst open, the fierce connection snapping out to Julion's staff, the flash of light and blast of wind that rushed over her. She drank in the power, the power of the rift that she had touched with her own hand this morning, that would allow her and all mages to ascend to a new level, that they might never come under the yoke of the Chantry again.

The Circle would never be reformed if the mages wielded rift magic. The Templars would crumble beneath them if they foolishly chose to fight. Their anti-magic and resistance would be nothing compared to the raw power of the Fade. The mages would be free. Truly free. Forever.

Vell's heart raced, soaking in the energy flooding out from the rift, dreaming of the possibilities. She could go wherever she wanted and no one would be able to stop her just because she was born a mage and not a normal kid. What would she do? It was something she had never considered before. If the mages were truly free and she didn't need to spend her days running and hiding from Templars, what would she do? Would she fight? Travel? Party? Find love? Marry? Have a family? Would she use her magic to help people or would she just live her own life for once instead of the life the Chantry gave her? Would she keep association with the other mages, some new organization unlike the Circle but built out of their new freedom?

What would Enchanter Cockchoke do? Left behind, his precious Circle stamped into the dirt? Would he go back to the tower in Montsimmard, to his same bed and his same desk and his same Templars and go on pretending that nothing happened? What would he do when no one taught him the secrets of this new magic and he knew that he was the one in the dark, the one who was weak and who was brutalized?

Julion grunted loudly, snapping Vell back to attention. The beam of energy between her staff and the rift twisted wildly, three bends of electric spinning and spiraling around each other, so bright that it was nearly white and pulsing down into her staff.

The glyph at her feet began to light, the bluish lyrium glowing suddenly jumping to life, light tracing around her feet, shining brightly. The dim pattern was now shining fully, the haze of blue fog rising up around her ankles and calves, her arms shaking to keep a hold on her staff.

"Julion!" Reynaud cried out, stepping forward.

"No!" she called back stopping him in his place. "No, it's just spike," she grunted. "I can handle it! Do not interfere!"

Her lips pulled back, her gritted teeth bared as she pushed the head of her staff down slowly, her arms pushing as if she were moving an exceptionally heavy lever. The energy coursed around her staff, bends of green static snapping in the air around them.

The second glyph, the one below the rift, began to light, the bends and patterns of the intricate design flashing to life. It had gone from dark to fully lit in a matter of seconds, the light shining white nearly blotted out by a sudden pulse of brightness from the rift itself. The hole began to open, the air being sucked out of the cave, pulled into the void.

The tail of Vell's coat began to snap around her legs, the leather jacket pulled forward toward the hole in the rift, which was slowly growing larger, dark green energy crystallizing and jutting out from the wound in the Veil.

The light of the glyph below the rift began to blink, flashing in and out, dark and light.

"Demons are closing in on the rift!" the woman, Ivania, shouted over the roaring tempest of wind sucking into the rift.

"Julion, we-"

"No!" the mage cried, jerking her staff up, the flow of energy pulsing even faster now, power so incredible that Vell could feel her head spinning, drunk almost. Green lightning cracked out of the rift, striking the ceiling of the cave. "I'm almost there."

Bends of electric crackled out of the rift, the vacuum was growing even stronger now. The wind howled through her ears. The light ringing the edge of the black, gaping hole was so bright Vell lifted her hand to her brow to shield her eyes.

The beams of energy connecting to the staff oscillated up and down wildly. A fourth snake of green energy flailed out of the rift, slapping around like a wild tentacle before creeping its way and pulling the staff. A fifth bolt, shot out in a flash, making the connection. The green light began to creep away from Julion's staff, creeping up her left arm, wrapping around her forearm like a constrictor.

"It's… too… much!"

The glyph around her feet shattered.

A burst of force rumbled out of the rift.

Julion screamed.

"Cut it! CUT IT!" Reynaud began to scream. His hands were awash in blue energy, neutralizing magic that he threw toward their leader, magic that shriveled and died as it struck a shell of green power overwhelming Julion, wrapping around her body like cords.

Julion's body lifted off the ground, her staff ripped from her hands and sucked into the hole in the Fade, the metal and crystal disintegrating into ash before it even reached the hole. Her body dangled, enveloped in rift energy, hanging limply as if a giant lifted her by her left wrist.

The other mages jumped to action, but too late.

The magic from the rift swallowed Julion, green light piercing her eyes and bursting from her mouth like vomit. Bolts of light piercing her flesh like worms eating through a rotting apple, snaking in and out on the other side and then looping back through again.

Her scream grew so loud and shrill, amplifying as if shouted through a horn that echoed through the limitless Fade and back out of the rift.

"GET DOWN!"

There was a hard shove in her side and Vell began to fall toward the ground, a strong hand grabbing the collar of her jacket and pulling her toward the floor. As she fell, she could see the hazy white bubble of a barrier creeping across her field of vision, the shadow of Enchanter Taesas eclipsing into her view.

And then Julion burst.

The entire cave shook, the spray of red blood and bits of bone striking the barrier, a gory thunderstorm wind-blasted into the window that was his barrier. The bits of the elder mage shot in every direction, bolts of energy spraying out between the blood and body parts, shattering the rocky mouth of the cave. She could hear the Enchanter's strained growl, his left hand alight in white as he spun to cover her with his shield, the barrier straining to hold against the explosion.

Taesas had her pinned to the ground as he tried to hold his spell, the barrier totally obscured in a coat of splattered blood, the shield of magic taking hit after hit of force that poked it like hands punching a raised sheet.

To her left, a bolt of energy shot out over the cliff and across the water and she realized that impaled on the beam of energy was a man, Reynaud, his arms and legs dangling limp and melting into greenish ash over the water.

There was a second explosion, deafening loud, impossibly bright, the force slamming up against the barrier, Taesas bending toward his shield, his right hand jerking off of her chest, it too now flaring with magic as he struggled to hold.

There was screaming. Vell could hear screaming. A shriek. The crackling sound of energy. Another high-pitched scream that came from nothing human. The pleading of a man, a plea to the Maker followed by horrified screams and something that sounded like wooden breaking and cloth ripping.

The barrier before her fell, the curtain of red blood dropping to the ground as Taesas released the spell. What lay behind the barrier was even more horrifying that the bloody screen that had separated them from horror.

The rift now spun and twisted with fierce, crackling energy, the hole in the middle no longer sucking in but pouring out. The rift belched out bolts of energy and demons. Already there were several tall, spindly things with barbs and razors and teeth and jaws that opened all the way and dead, black, lightless eyes. She could see Ivania, her staff gone, her arm hanging limply at her side, the dark, shrouded demon hovering before her, paralyzing her.

She didn't even have time to scream as the demon melded into her, her face contorting and twisting and body writhing as it possessed her, her beautiful ice-blue eyes now shining with magic light behind them of something else inside of her.

"Get up or you'll die!" Taesas shouted down to Vell as he backed away a step, avoiding the raking slash of a shade as his staff spun, the blunt end whipping around and driving into the flank of the demon, slamming it across the cave with a burst of force magic.

Vell scraped to her feet, somehow, her eyes darting around the cave, watching as the mages fought demons, some of them already dead, some of them dying, blood everywhere. She stumbled back a step on her feet, staring at the wide, black, emptiness of the rift as a bolt of green light spewed down and crystallized into the form of another demon.

She lifted her hands in front of her, but her mind was blank. She felt dizzy, the pulsing energy of the rift leaving her confused and dumbfounded. She looked, watching another of the Collective mages being ripped apart by a demon, the shade literally digging a hole in the man's gut so that it could slide in. His bloody entrails swung out of the hole in his abdomen as his body wrenched, skin tainting to a sickly blue-black color, his head twisting at an impossible angle as the demon crawled through him.

Fire. She tried to remember. It was her favorite element. Fierce and strong. Powerful.

There was pool of greenish light below her feet. She glanced down at it, rippling like water, her hands dangling in front of her face as she tried to remember fire and how to use it. But all she could feel was cold, a deep dread clutching her muscles as the shadow raised behind her. She turned turned her head, tried to turn her body but it would not move.

The taller, barbed demon crawled out of the pool of green beneath her, towering over her, its sickly pallid flesh stretched tautly across bones and barbs. Its multiple eyes like black dots upon its head. It detached jaw filled with hundreds of teeth. It bent backward, a whistling wail shredding out of its unhinged jaw.

The pulses of terror coursed through Vell, her blood turning to ice in her veins and her entire body frozen with fear.

She could barely even feel it as its long, wicked claws raked across her back. Her body teetered and she could feel herself falling but was unable to move and catch herself. Her chest slammed into the stone, her jaw slamming down into the rock, the jolt of the falling knocking her back to her senses.

Now she could feel the agonizing, burning pain in her back. She rolled onto her side, the pain flaring in the fresh wounds across her back as she tried to crawl away, her fingers scraping useless against the blood-slickened floor of the cave. The terror demon prowled closed to her, its sickening jaw dripping with blood and slather.

Fire. There was fire in her hands. She lifted her left arm, the muscles in her back screaming at the movement. But the demon shrieked again and her entire arm shook, the same fear piercing her in the heart as she cringed, closing her eyes and covering her ears with her hands as she stared wide-eyed at the stalking demon.

It raised its clawed arm again to strike, the arm whistling down, its bloody claws coming for her head, Vell unable to move, unable to defend herself.

And then the shield was over her head, the claws bouncing against the metal buckler, a flash of frost bursting across its body, freezing it in place. In front of her face, two feet, stepping, spinning, a staff whirling in a silver arc, a white cape floating in the air like the breeze. The sound of shattering ice rang through her ears as the staff collided with the demon, the entire frozen statue breaking into pieces as the force rattled through it.

A hand wrapped around her arm, yanking her back up to her feet, Enchanter Taesas steadying her with his hand on his shoulder. "What are you doing! Snap out of it!" He shook her body, rattling her addled brain in her head. "Wake up, Vell!"

Her eyes rolled in her head but they focused on his face, a streak of blood painted like a brushstroke across his left cheek. His eyes were hot, piercing her as he rattled her body. The rift was rumbling. She could see the outlines of demons creeping like black shadows through the light. Her mind seemed to lurch forward, her consciousness finally landing back in her head.

The rift had broken open. Julion was dead. The mages were dying. There was blood everywhere. Taesas had saved her life. Twice.

She blinked twice. "Taesas," she said, testing the words on her tongue. It was all she could think to say.

"You have to get out of here!" he shouted at her. "Find Matteo and tell him to evacuate the city. Get everyone out. I'll hold the demons here as long as I can."

Fire. She remembered the fire. She lifted her left arm, pointing it at a shade creeping toward them and let the ball of flame fly over Taesas' shoulder, striking the shadowy figure and lighting it afire.

He spun, shoving her back and out of the way as another one of the terror demons phased up through the ground in the spot where she was previously standing. His staff spun around his arm, thrusting forward as the speared end gored it through its narrow midsection. He quickly pulled the staff back, his left arm coming across his body as he slammed the demon with his shield, a burst of force magic behind the blow lifting it up and off its feet and throwing it into the air over the edge of the cliff.

"Get everyone out of Ceraux!" he barked again.

"I can fight!" She said it despite the aching wound across her back. It felt deep. She could feel the trickle of blood running down the small of her back.

It was a pain she had felt hundreds of times before. A pain she knew all too well. It was a pain she could endure, as she always had.

Taesas was alreading spinning his staff, firing bolts of ice across the cavern at the encroaching demons. The other mages were dead or possessed. Before her, all she could see were demons and horrific abominations masquerading in the dead flesh of the Collective. The cavern was shattered, the rocks broken and jagged and the interior collapsed into a pile of rubble. To her back was the narrow path leading to the Collective camp and down to Cereaux.

"DO AS I SAY!" Taesas yelled, his voice full of wrath. It was the kind of stern command the Templars might use in the Circle. It was the authoritarian boom that was the final word, the last ultimatum before violence came.

He spun back into the fray, the white cape now stained with streaks of blood, his staff bending around his body. Taesas froze an approaching shade, rolled to the side, his staff swinging with force behind it to brush the demons back. The fingers of his left hand were in motion, his hand tossing down one, two, three glyphs at his feet even as his staff flared with more ice in the other hand.

The spear shot out, striking, pulling back, the shield covering his body, catching a strike, the staff whipping around, one of the glyphs breaking and paralyzing an abomination, his feet sliding back across the stone buying space, the speared end of the staff lashing out in three quick strikes each finding purchase, a spray of cold from his left hand that bathed the approaching demons in frost and held them in place.

The Enchanter twirled as graceful as a dancer, his brows bent in a state of extreme concentration as he struck, defended and counter-struck. He moved from spell to spell so fluidly, a symphony of spirit and force and ice, managing to keep the waves of demons at bay. He moved as if he could see every move they prepared to make, his feet sliding into the right place, his spells perfectly rehearsed and ordered as if he had fought this exact fight hundreds of times over.

Vell could feel the Fade all around him even amidst the blaring fury of the rift. He overflowed with mana, power pouring out of him like a font, pulling the fuel for spell after spell after spell that he cast in sequence seemingly without effort.

His feet spun, twirling back, his cape floating around him like a veil. His staff slid through his open grasp, the blunt head flailing outward as he tightened his grip at the speared end, a cutting wave of force around the head that shot forward in an arc, shredding the demons caught in its path.

But even as they broke in two, screaming and shrieking, their bodies pulled back into the gaping maw of the rift, it burst with light, bolts of green shooting down to the ground and forming new demons around him. He was impossibly outnumbered.

Taesas reached to his belt, pulling a vial of blue liquid, lyrium, and quickly gulping it down as he prepared for the next wave.

"Why are you still here!" he shouted at her, the only one still alive besides him. "Go!"

The wave of force hit her chest like a punch, knocking her backward out of the mouth of the cave and down the narrow path toward camp. She doubled over, holding her heart from the sudden, unexpected blast. She lifted her head, watching him spinning, striking, magic pouring out of him.

She wasn't a coward. She wasn't weak. She wouldn't be told what to do. Not by him. Not by anyone.

He couldn't die for her. No one was allowed to die for her sake. Not again.

The fire flared into her palms and she pushed off the ground. His head turned and his hand lifted, a snap of blue light as the spears of ice spiked into the air, blocking off the entrance to the cave. The wall of ice filled in, rising above her head. She threw her fire forward into it, but her spells struck and broke against his magic uselessly.

She stepped to the wall, slamming her fist into the ice. The lip of the wall was too high to climb. The ice stretched to the edge of the cliff so she couldn't go around it. He had sealed himself in.

Vell pounded her fists against the wall of ice once more.

"Maker fucking damn it!"

She turned down the path, pulling her staff off her back and driving it into the ground to help her walk between the pain her chest from Taesas' magic and from the screaming, bloody gashes across her back.

The Collective camp looked just as it had when the mages went to the cave to close a rift and prove their magic was strong and right and safe. Bottles of wine and glasses were placed out in an anticipation of revelry. Bedrolls were left unmade. Bags empty and unguarded. None of them had survived the explosion of the rift.

Or so she thought, as Vell heard a quiet muttering.

"Hello? Is someone there?" she stumbled across the camp as quickly as she could with her wounds, nearly tripping over a bedroll, moving toward the sound that was getting louder as she neared the back of the camp.

Sitting on the ground, with a book in her hand, a quill flying across the page and dabbing into an inkwell in her hand sat Thelric.

"We believed ourselves prepared for demonic manifestation. We were not prepared for how the energies we expected would be encountered. Well-versed in the forces that magic can produce, my senior was surprised by an alteration, a deviance…"

"Thelric! You're alive!"

The mage did not respond, her eyes unblinking and affixed upon the page, her entire body still except for the quill scratching across the page. She did not look up.

"That which previously had to be coaxed is now a flood that must be staunched. The same amount in different intensity, quick to expose fault in the way it is accessed. She drew too much, expecting resistance."

"Thelric, what are you doing. We have to get out of here!" Vell shouted as she made her way over Julion's assistant.

She still did not break. "There was none, and her form suffered the brunt. Tread carefully in studies of new matters, for I cannot unsee the end of her."

"Thelric!" Vell grabbed her wrist, stopping the quill pen. Even with her hand tightly wrapped around Thelric's wrest, the hand still moved, fingers twisting, writing words in the air as the pen hovered above the page. Her eyes were stuck open and she still stared down at the paper. Vell let her staff drop out of her hand and slapped the woman across the cheek. "Thelric, we have to go!"

Stunned from the blow, her eyes glanced upward at Vell. They were glassy with tears that weren't falling, her entire body trembled with fear. "I… I…" she stammered.

"Demons are going to overrun this camp, we have to get far, far away," Vell said, tugging Thelric to her feet, the book that was in her lap tumbling into the dirt, the pages crinkling as the cover fell open. She pulled the mage forward but Thelric planted her feet and tugged back, jerking Vell's arm.

"The books!" Thelric cried, wrenching her arm free from Vell's grasp. She bent down and picked up the book that had fallen and moved toward the chest sitting nearby, lifting the lid and pulling out more books that she piled in her arms.

"Fuck the books!" Vell stomped over. "They're not worth dying for!"

"They are!" Thelric screamed, her shoulders flailing wildly left and right as Vell tried to grab her again. "She died for this. She died for this. She died for this. She died for this."

Thelric kept repeating it, her body bobbing forward and back as she continued to dig into the chest pulling out books and papers and scrolls. She had snapped. Her mind was broken. Whatever she had seen in the cave had shattered her. Vell didn't know how she managed to escape, but she had obviously seen too much of the horror before she did.

"She died for this. She died for this. She died for this. She-"

"Oh for fuck's sake," Vell said, grabbing a canvas bag and holding it open. Thelric smiled a broken, insane smile as she carefully placed the books one by one into the bag, stacking them carefully on top of each other.

Vell's eyes drifted back toward the path, the dulled sounds of shrieks and magic still filling the air, flashes of white and green and blue lighting up the dark night sky. Taesas was still alive, for the moment.

"Done. Done done done done done done," Thelric said as she dropped the last book in and stood.

Vell cinched the bag, scooped up her staff and tucked it under her arm and grabbed Thelric by the wrist, pulling her toward the winding path back down to Ceraux.

All the way down, Vell couldn't help but look back up at the cliffs, making sure the flashes of light had not ceased.

* * *

The sun was up and Ceraux was burning.

The people who had heeded the warning of the Templars now stood looking at the black smoke rising from up the highway.

A few of those who had not come initially arrived just an hour ago, tired and bloody and horrified by the destruction that was unleashed upon their city. None of the city guard had emerged. Vell assumed they had fulfilled their oaths and fought to the death in defense of the city. She hoped they died quickly.

The Templars had wanted to fight their way up the cliff to reinforce Enchanter Taesas. But the light in the cliffs had gone dark as the first group of people began to flee from Ceraux. His friend, Matteo, had been shooting daggers at her every time she looked at him. She was a mage and, in his eyes, this was all her fault.

"One approaching!" the Templar who was standing guard at their impromptu camp warned.

Heads turned to the road, townsfolk looking for friends and neighbors. Vell gasped as she spied the lone shambler, garbed in shredded armor and a tattered, bloody cape dangling loosely from his shoulders.

Taesas's hands were both wrapped around his staff, the only thing keeping him from falling into the dirt.


	13. Chapter 13

**Thirteen**

The burned-out town did little to soothe the anxiety of Ceraux's survivors.

It looked like a small traveler's stop, with an inn, a few shops, a stable. To the west, a large grain silo stood, probably the gathering point for the servants who toiled the large, fertile plantations of the nobility. There were burned out carts. The destroyed town had no dead in it that Taesas could see, at least from where he sat.

That meant it was likely raided by one of the warring factions of the Orlesian Civil War and not by demons. Either everyone had fled ahead of violence or the invading army had taken everyone away. Either way, it was a grim place to lodge down. He had sent two of the Templars immediately back to Skyhold to report and to beg for the Inquisitor's aid to close the now-furious rift the Collective had foolishly blown open.

Taesas sat upon the low wall of the well in the center circle of the town. The bucket of water at his side was a filthy greyish pink as he dumped the rag in again, attempting to scrub the grime of blood, dirt and demon gore off of himself. Every muscle ached, making even the simple motions of dipping the rag, squeezing out the water and wiping his flesh was pained. He had been fighting for hours. Taesas had gone through all four lyrium potions he carried and had drawn deeper upon his connection to the Fade than he ever had in his life.

He couldn't even fathom how many demons he had killed at the cave before he finally turned and retreated down the cliffs. When he came to Ceraux, the guards were still on the walls and much of the city hadn't evacuated, despite his warning. The gate guard had chastised him for causing a panic.

That guard was much less insolent when he spied the first of the demons crawling down the cliff.

Taesas fought the demons at the gates. He fought them through the streets. He watched guard after guard fall, terrified townsfolk trying to flee their homes in their nightwear, demons ravaging through the city. He had only been able to hold the gate so long, but the demons had crawled over the low walls and by the time he had made a stand in Ceraux he was already beyond exhausted.

When it was clear the city was lost, he had quit the field and saved himself.

"You look terrible."

Taesas looked up and smirked as best he could. Even his cheeks were tired. "You're welcome, Alycine."

She held out her hand, her eyes looking down at the rag hanging limply over the side of the bucket. He lifted it and handed it to her as she wrung out the excess and took a seat next him, dabbing a spot at his temple.

"Is your daughter safe?" he asked.

Alycine dipped the rag back in the bucket and squeezed it out again, then went back to dabbing a cut on his cheek. "She had left south the day before for the faire. I dread having to tell her about the house. I'm sure she'll cry and whine about how all of her stuff is gone." She scrubbed a bit of dried filth off of his face. "I do hate that girl. She reminds me too much of me."

Tasas chuckled at the thought. He hadn't known Alycine in her younger days, but he suspected that she did her daughter did have more in common with her mother's younger self than she'd like to admit. "Where will you go?"

"We have a place in Lydes. Smaller. Not nearly as nice. But it will do," she said and pinched his cheek. "I suppose I could pretend I'm dead, though. Take on a new name. Run off to Antiva with you. We can start over together."

She didn't mean that. She knew he couldn't. He knew she couldn't. They were both creatures of duty and no desire could be stronger than fulfilling their place in the world.

He didn't need to respond to it. The Circle needed him and he needed it. If he went apostate, they would come looking for him. Matteo would come looking for him, out of a desire to try to protect him from the Chantry. Vivienne would send Templars to find him if only to silence him before he did any damage to her reputation. But he knew he couldn't run, even if he wanted to.

No matter how much line they gave him, the end was and always would be staked to Montsimmard.

"Thank you," Alycine said as she lowered the rag.

Her blue eyes were dimmed with grief, but she meant it sincerely. It wasn't sadness for loss of her home and her city. It was the sadness of another parting, another separation from him. Tomorrow she would continue south to Lydes, back to her husband, back to her family and back to her gilded cage.

He took her hand and squeezed. She leaned forward and planted a gentle kiss upon his cheek. No words were exchanged. As always, they understood.

The rebel approached, her staff in her hand as she leaned upon it nearly as heavily as he had during his arrival. He had never seen her pull the staff before, but she gripped onto it tightly now. Her skin looked pale and her face was written with pain. The fight and hate in her eyes was absent. Instead, there was fatigue.

Vell swallowed disgust, her face turned away, unable to even look him in the eye. She lifted her chin upward and grimaced.

"I need your help," Vell said. "To heal my back."

"There are other-"

"No," she interrupted, her voice stalwart. "It has to be you."

Still she did not make eye contact with him. She made sure not to look at him, her gaze spinning around to everything else. Her lips twisted and her fingers readjusted on her staff. Her legs were trembling. Taesas could see fear in the way she stood.

The terror demon had slashed her deeply, he remembered. She would have been dead, too, if not for his intervention. The others, the Collective mages he could not have saved. But he was capable of saving her and had. No one deserved to die at the hands of demons, not even her.

"Let me see the wound."

"No." Her refusal was just as fierce as the first. Hers arms flexed as she swayed, lowered her head until her forehead touched the head of her staff. She took a breath. "Not here." Vell lifted her right arm, pointing it back away from her in the direction of a barn well away from the camp.

Taesas pressed his arms down on the wall of the well, pushing himself to his feet. Whatever ache he was feeling from the exertion, her body said that she was in much more pain. Vell turned and began to walk and he let himself fall a step behind her, glancing at the three slash marks in her leather coat. The black leather was stained unholy with both a caked-on crust of dried brown blood stains as well as shimmering, fresh red spots from where she still bled. There was no indication that she had taken off the jacket or had anyone tend to it. It was foolishness. She had obviously lost a significant amount of blood. Why hadn't she sought help before now?

The barn had not been burnt like many of the other buildings in town, but the double-doors were broken. The left side still hung loosely from a broken hinge, while the right side had been torn off and was missing.

"Put a barrier up across the door," she asked as she walked deeper into the barn. "Please."

Her tone had completely changed from the morning before when she was tossing out lewd suggestion at him. He did not question. With the wave of his hand, he cast a weak barrier across the open doorway, only strong enough to keep someone from walking in. But even a weak punch would be enough to break it. He was too tired to conjure anything more significant.

"If you're worried about modesty," Taesas began, then stopped himself. He doubted she was worried about modesty. But he couldn't think of any other reason for the secrecy.

"It's not that," Vell said as she tossed her staff to the ground and began to slowly slide her arms out of the jacket. She moved gingerly, each movement clearly bringing her pain as she bent. "I just don't want anyone else to see this."

The black leather jacket dropped to the ground and Vell began to peel the blood soaked shirt off of her ghostly flesh. She raised her arms above her head - Taesas could almost swear he heard her whimper as she did it - and pulled the sopping shirt away, leaving her bare from the chest up.

"By the Maker…" he cursed to himself with a gasp. As Taesas glanced upon her bare back, the three, deep, bloody gashes were not what gave him pause.

Vell's entire back was little more than a patchwork of brutal scars.

Even coated in a crust of blood, Taesas could see hundreds of scars, pink and grey lines that criss-crossed her entire back. Some were short, barely visible. But there were a few that were inches long and wide, wounds that had been torn very wide and taken long to heal. And there were scars layered on top of scars, some rends in her flesh that looked like they had never healed properly. Clearly none of the cuts and slashes had been fixed with magic. All had been left to mend naturally and they had mended poorly.

"You asked me before why I hated the Circle," Vell said, a little bit of that defiant tone returning to her voice. "I hope you can see why."

She crossed her arms over her chest, her head drooping slightly. Her rainbow hair was disheveled, the profile of her face clearly in pain, the narrow, girlish curve of her body vivid in the dim of the barn. As Taesas looked at her, he couldn't help but shake the feeling of looking at one of Marquis Brevere's statues, but one that had been left out to the elements, neglected and eroded.

Vell stood before him a horrid, mangled piece of art.

"I…" Taesas stumbled. What words could he say? There was only one explanation he could reasonably deduce for how she could have received this canvas of pain. He couldn't find the words. Instead, he settled on, "This will be easier if we sit."

Vell crouched to the ground, waving her hand over a small pile of kindling that she must have gathered earlier. Next to the wood was a dented metal bucket filled with water and next to that, a pile of ripped cloth stacked in a messy pile.

She sat, leaning forward, hugging her bent knees as she pressed her chest against her thighs and resting her head upon her forearms. Taesas knelt behind her, getting a closer look at the wounds but also looking at the slashes of scars around them. The wound was bad, deep and still oozing, but he could not shake the emptiness he felt as he looked upon the scars.

"These slashes are too deep and too serious," he said quietly to her. "I'll need to cleanse them before I attempt to heal it."

"Whatever you have to do," she said apathetically. "Just new scars to add to the collection."

Taesas placed the metal bucket in the fire, letting the water warm as he reached out, touching his fingertips between her shoulder blades. Vell flinched at his touch, and he pulled back, but she shook her head and cursed herself.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to…" Taesas said. "It's not my place."

"No, it's just been a long time since I've given up my back," Vell apologized, surprisingly.

"Go ahead. This is what the Templars did to me. I want you to see it."

Her voice was laced with that familiar hate again. Taesas placed his fingers upon her shoulder again and she did not move this time. He slowly dragged his fingertips down, feeling the rising ridges and clefts, looking at the broken flesh, the pink hashes and grey tissue overlapping one another. Up close, it was even worse than from afar. What had first looked like a hundred scars was more likely two or three hundred.

His fingers reached the edge of the first of the claw marks and he lightly moved through the crust of dried blood around the edge. He lifted his fingers as he reached the rift of the wound, the dark red blood still wet and slimy in the deep crevice the demon had left her. A wound like this would bring a normal man to his knees. How had she gone hours without anyone treating it?

Taesas lifted the bucket off the flame, testing the water with his fingers to make sure it was not so hot as to burn her. He grabbed the first bunch of unevenly-ripped cloth and dunked it into the water and touched the wet rag to her back. Vell inhaled sharply as the hot cloth touched her wound, but she did not make a sound or flinch.

"How did this happen?" He had to know. He could not perform this task without knowing what had been done to her and why. There were bad Templars from time to time. But for something of this magnitude to happen, Taesas couldn't fathom it.

"A senior Templar," Vell said quietly. "I was an elf girl the Templars had snatched off the street. In Val Royeaux, I was nothing to the Circle. There were some regular kids like me, but the tower was packed with sons and daughters of nobles, important people in the city.

"No one even noticed when he took me," she said. "The dungeons below White Spire are deep. There are shallow cells in the first basement, places they take mages when they're misbehaving. But the tower goes down and down. The cells at the lowest level of the tower are so far down that no one can hear you."

Taesas had lived in Montsimmard almost his entire life and he had to admit he did not even know what cells might be in the tower. He had never been. He knew the Templars must take mages somewhere for punishment, from time to time. The Rite of Tranquility was not performed in the Harrowing Chamber either. But there were doors mages were not allowed beyond and he had never gone. Was there such a place in Montsimmard too?

"He said the Circle needed blood. I would provide that blood for him," Vell said. "But he told me he had needs too, needs that the Circle did not fulfill. I would be his special friend from then on."

Taesas dipped the rag, wiping it deep into the middle of the three slashes, the widest and deepest. The muscles in her back clenched and her breath stopped again, but she did not make a sound. The rag came away stained deeply.

"He liked causing the pain. He'd chain me face-first to the wall and drag out his 'tickler' and begin to whip. As the blood ran down my back, he would collect it until he had two jars full. Then he would stand there behind me, groping himself, dragging his fingers across my bloody back. If I didn't cry or didn't scream the way he liked, he would get the tickler again until I did it right, until he got off the way he wanted."

Taesas dabbed the third wound with the rag, but the first was already beginning to ooze up again, slowly. He dipped the rag and started over, just wanting to get them cleaned to a point he could begin to work.

"He always said he liked me best because I was like a boy. Skinny. Weak. Flat-chested and high-voiced. He couldn't take the real human boys, though, because they might be nobles or might someday grow up and be an enchanter. No, a gutter elf girl would never amount to anything. Even when I got older, my body never changed. I was always his little boy."

Her words made him sick. He tossed the rag aside, reaching into his belt pouch for a small tin of red paste. He opened the container and swiped his two fingers into the creamy salve. "This is going to burn, but it will help sanitize the wound," Taesas said as a warning. He dabbed his fingers into the cleft of the first slash. Her back twitched and she held her breath again, but let him work. "Did you tell someone about what was happening? Did you tell the First Enchanter?"

Vell snorted and lifted her head slightly off her arms. "I never even _met_ the fucking First Enchanter. Not once. He was so high in the tower, up there worrying about what party was next and whose ass he would need to kiss the most at it."

Taesas realized he couldn't remember the last time he wandered through the apprentice quarters. In the last two years since he had found his place at Vivienne's side, he hadn't even been required to instruct mages any more. He was allowed to conduct leisurely research as he saw fit and spent an inordinate amount of time away from the tower visiting with nobles and attending the kind of affairs Vell so hatefully denounced.

But in doing so, he had helped bolster the Circle. The nobility made sure the mages were well supplied and funded. The wealth flowing in the Chantry made the Revered Mothers and Templar Order more amenable to discussions. The Circle had flourished so much that Vivienne even had the Empress' ear when she required it and garnered both the respect and fear of the Council of Heralds. The College of Enchanters, the mages and the apprentices all benefitted indirectly from his work.

"After days in the dungeon, slowly healing, when I'd return to my bunk and to my classes, the Enchanters would demand to know where I'd been," Vell said. "I couldn't tell them the truth. He was going to kill me, or worse, if I said anything. So I would make up stories and then the Enchanters would punish me too. Then a month would go by, maybe two. I'd be up at night, listening to the silence in the bunkroom and hear the quiet clink of armor, the sound of footsteps coming down the hall, knowing that he was coming for me again."

Taesas dipped his fingers deeper into the tin, liberally applying the red healing salve into the deep middle wound. Vell did not even tense at his touch now. "How did you get it to end?"

Vell chuckled quietly to herself and she lifted her head up, turning her face so she could look over her right shoulder back at him. She smiled a devious smile, but her eyes were dull with sadness. She laughed again, sounding of one triumph gained in a war that had taken away everything.

"I learned not to scream."

Taesas looked at her eyes. They did not falter. This was not a lie. It couldn't have been a lie. The battle at the cave, the way she carried on in what must have been intense pain, the way she did not so much as gasp or whimper as he mended the wounds and cleaned them with salve that he knew firsthand burned like flame when it was in a wound.

"You-"

She turned her head back around, but tossed it back, her neck wrinkling and her hair falling backward across her scalp, her eyes pointed up toward the rafters. "I learned not to scream. He wanted the blood for whatever damn reason, but he wanted my pain more. He couldn't get it up without the pain. So I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I didn't flinch. He would furiously beat me, shouting, commanding me to suffer.

She lifted her hands up from her knees and clenched them in fists. "But I held onto those chains on the wall and I sealed my teeth together and swore I wouldn't make a single fucking sound. I held onto those fucking chains so hard as he stripped away all of my flesh. I pursed my lips and didn't make a fucking sound until I passed out from the pain."

Her fists shook, like she was rattling those chains around her wrists right now. "And when I wouldn't scream, and when he almost killed me, and when he couldn't stroke his fucking prick any more because I wouldn't cry out, he moved on."

Taesas finished the last of the salve, the red paste smeared in each of the three wounds. It began to dry, the red color fading to white as it sanitized the broken flesh. As he moved his hand back down to place the lid back on the tin, his hand was shaking.

"Did they ever find out?" he asked as he poured water from the bucket across her back to wash away the dried, activated paste.

Vell's hands lowered quickly back down to her knees and her head lay back down. "He's dead now."

He might have expected her to say that line with joy, but instead her voice was laced with a deep sadness. The words came out of her mouth as barely a whisper, with no power behind them.

Taesas lifted his hands up toward her back, pulling the mana into his body. He was exhausted, his powers stretched to the limit by the earlier battle, but he would have enough to finish the job, if he went slowly. At his best, he could heal all three gashes with a few swipes of his hands. Now, he was so weary he knew he couldn't do more than small bit at a time. He pushed the spell forward, a small white light flaring on his palms as he pressed his hands on the wounds and began to heal her.

Her breathing was shallower and quicker now and her arms shifted as she squeezed her legs closer to her body. From the way her back rose and fell, it almost felt like she was weeping. He couldn't blame her. Not after what had been done to her. If she was crying, he couldn't bring himself to ask. She didn't need it dragged out for him.

"I was Dalish," he said instead.

She didn't answer.

"On the road, when we first met," Taesas said. "You asked how I came to the Circle. I was Dalish, before."

Vell still didn't respond, but her breathing stilled a little as he slid he hands across her back to the next patch he needed to heal.

"The Dalish keepers are all mages. They keep the history of the clan. The preserve what's left of the ancient magic. But the Dalish have no Templars and all the clans know the stories of Keepers or Firsts who succumbed to a demon."

The hahrens told those stories sometimes, to teach them about the inherent danger of magic, but also its wonder. They told the stories to give children the respect of the ancient tombs and of the elven dead. They told the stories to make the children respect their Keeper and the other mages, for they ran a great risk in their calling to preserve the lore of the Dales.

"The clans can't keep too many mages. Mages draw demons and the more that are there, the greater the chance that something terrible will befall the clan. I came into the gift when I was six years, but I was one mage too many for our clan. The Keeper tried to trade me to other clans that could take me, but there were few nearby. We lived in the Tirashan and the clans there are spread far.

"On my seventh name day, the Keeper gave me a tonic and told me it was important to drink the whole thing. I was confused. None of the other children had done this on their name days. But my mother, she ran her hand through my hair and told me not to worry, that everything would be fine."

Taesas bit his lip and focused, continuing to draw the mana across the Veil, although the link was sputtering and weak. He finished healing the first of the three slashes and moved to the lowest one which was thinner and smaller.

"When I awoke it was the middle of the night. I was no longer in the camp. I was somewhere deep in the wood, lying at the feet of a statue of Fen'Harel, a single brazier burning on the small stone alter for offerings," he said. He could still remember the eyes of the statue. Empty, black holes that maybe once had held gems but now were empty pits. "I think now that the poison they gave me was supposed to kill me. That I was supposed to die a sacrifice to the Dread Wolf. But I lived."

"I called out for my mother, for my father, but I knew I was nowhere close to camp. The forest was so thick that there was no way to know which way to go, even if I thought I could find my way back. Instead, I began walking east, hoping to reach the edge of the forest and find the human settlements."

When his parents had not answered his call, he did not bother to call again. His mother, she had told him to drink the Keeper's tonic. She had told him that it was necessary and that he would not be hurt. His mother might as well have been playing the Game, spouting things that were technically true but so dredged in the subterfuge that in truth they were nothing but expertly crafted lies. His mother and father, the Keeper, the clan, the Dalish as a whole, all had betrayed him.

He had walked for two days, lost in a sea of trees and plants. He drank from filthy pools of water on the forest floor and ate whatever insects he could catch writing through the dirt. Without food and clean water, his stomach clenched in burning pain and his head pounded all day. He only knew he walked east from the muted rays of sun that slipped between the trees in the morning.

His little feet dragged on although there was no hope. The forest was expansive. He had no idea where he had been left. He had no idea how deep his clan was. He had only seen brief glimpses of the maps the crafter kept to even know that there was a world beyond the woods.

"By the Maker's grace, at the end of the second day I came to the edge of the forest. I had stumbled into Serault where the humans found me. I raised my hands, lighting with magic, showing them what I could do, trusting that they would help me," Taesas took a deep breath as he finished the bottom wound, a took a second as he prepared to mend the largest of the three. "I suppose they could have just left me to die. An elf child mage deep from the haunted woods. But despite the shame of Serault, the people were faithful and turned me over to the Templars. They brought me to Montsimmard."

His first year in Montsimmard probably wasn't much different from what Vell had described. He was an elf in a Circle filled mostly with humans. They looked down on him, called him knife-ear, shoved him around. But, he supposed unlike Vell, he did not fight back. He devoted himself to his teachers and the books, to the Chant of Light the Circle and the Templars revered.

While the elven mythology was filled with stories of ancient magic, a squabbling pantheon of gods and cautionary tales about everything aspect of day-to-day life, the Chant offered a clearer message. They, too, taught about the dangers of magic but unlike the Dalish. Andraste had given her life to overthrow the wicked magisters, to save the people from oppressive magic that ruled the world. She would have saved him, too, he thought, saved him from a clan, from a family that would discard him because he was an inconvenience to their ways.

He was intelligent. He learned quickly. He was fierce in his study and practice of magic. While the noble boys lazed and languished, he easily surpassed them. The Enchanters could not help but take notice of his abilities. He touched the Fade so carefully but so confidently. They Harrowed him at fourteen, at his request, and he easily succeeded their test. Even the most clever demons were easy to see through and destroy, bound by such simple nature of unchanging, ancient power that had been catalogued for centuries.

In the Circle, he could rise to his use. He could be valued on his merits. He was not one mage too many. But like the Dalish clans, only the best would rise to become leader, to protect their people, protect their history and carry them forward into the future hopefully better than the clan they inherited. If he could not rise to be the most of them, what meaning would life in the Circle have that dying in the Tirashan would not?

"The Circle gave me a new life, one that my own people had tried to deny me," Taesas said. "I owe it everything."

Taesas exhaled and he let his hands go limp as he finished healing the last of the wounds on her back. It was not his cleanest work, but he hoped that with his help, the wounds might heal cleanly and not become one more scar Vell carried. She carried far too many already.

As she felt his hands pull away, she sat up straighter, lifting her arms and flexing her shoulders to feel the healed flesh. She twisted and moved and then lowered her hands to cover her chest again. She turned her torso slightly, enough to turn her head and look Taesas straight on.

Her brows still had that same, defiant look of the rebels and her eyes were as hard as they had ever been now that she was whole once more. But her mouth did not carry the same tension, and she seemed to struggle somewhere between a smile and a frown.

"Thank you, Tae," she said, using the shortened form, her voice sounded almost as soft and sweet as dear Alycine's. A day ago, he might have brushed it off with annoyance, a way for her to disrespect him, his position and his purpose.

But she meant it, now, he knew.

Taesas didn't know whether she thanked him specifically for the healing or for their conversation. She didn't specify. He didn't seek to clarify.

Somehow, he suspected it was for both.


	14. Chapter 14

**Fourteen**

The looking glass was dull and cloudy, but the best she could obtain on the road.

The small pair of tweezers clamped down and she tugged, pulling the errant hair from her otherwise perfect brow. She placed the tweezers down and picked up the black pencil, carefully tracing the line of her lower eyelid as she had hundreds of times before. Her lips were vivid, even in the dim.

She placed the cosmetics back in the small handbag, locked the clasp and slipped it back into the shallow pocket at her hip. The delay was minor despite the command that she appear " _Immediately."_

If Inquisitor Trevelyan planned to castigate her before all of his advisors, Fiona would at least go before them with dignity.

The makeshift Inquisition camp, set in the ruins of a destroyed town down the road from Ceraux, was again alive with soldiers. Whatever Templars the Inquisition commanded, it felt like every one of them had been marshaled to the camp. A battalion of soldiers had joined them as well.

The Collective had catastrophically cocked-up everything.

Fiona tied her hair back as she walked, the rings and cords of her robe jingling quietly with each confident step. She lifted her chin, feeling the brush of her gilded staff across her shoulder blades with each step, her eyes focused forward and ignoring the glaring of the bloodied Templars she passed. It had taken more than four hours to fight their way up the cliffs before the burst of green light in the cliffs signalled the closing of the rift that the foolish Collective mages had split.

She had expected Julion would have been more cautious and less prideful, but years away from the Circle had obviously turned her from thoughtful scholar to arrogant apostate. Perhaps Fiona should had reminded her that the only reason the Collective had enjoyed such latitude and freedom was because she, as Grand Enchanter, had so frequently kept the Templars' gaze occupied elsewhere.

Engaging the Collective had been desperate. Not unlike every other move Fiona had made recently. The rebellion was reeking of desperation at every turn, because desperation was all she had left.

Two Templars stood outside the flap of the Inquisitor's command tent now. A bad omen. A dire omen. If she left this summons without her hands bound in cuffs, she would consider herself lucky. Fiona brushed past them, stepping between the canvas flaps.

She was the last to arrive, by design no doubt. The Inquisitor was sitting in a chair, his greatsword sheathed and discarded on the ground, his armor still scratched and bloody from the battle earlier in the afternoon. His brown hair was wet with perspiration and disheveled from hours under a helmet.

Commander Cullen and Seeker Pentaghast were both within as well as Madam de Fer and her pet, the one she had sent here in her stead.

"You sent for me, your worship?" Fiona said, bowing her head low before the Inquisitor in extreme reverence.

"My dear Fiona, you look lovely this evening," Vivienne interjected. "As if you're dressed up for your own funeral."

"Vivienne." The Inquisitor's voice was a growl, frustrated and threatening. "Not another word."

The First Enchanter bowed her head in apology, but she did not try to hide the smile that crept across her face. She was, as Fiona had always known her, a ruthless bitch, willing to stomp down even on those whom she had burned to ash.

"An Orlesian city has been razed. Hundreds from Ceraux are dead. I lost three dozen men today pushing back the demons in order to get close enough to the rift to close it." Trevelyan shoved up from his chair, fuming as he unbuckled his breastplate and threw it across the tent, revealing a blood-stained undershirt beneath his armor, a shirt clearly stained with his own blood. His finger lifted accusingly at her, his face hot with rage. "So you better have a damn good reason for why I shouldn't put you and all of the rebels mages in chains!"

Vivienne was still smiling. The Enchanter had his arms crossed over his chest with his mouth straight-laced but behind the blank facade of his face Fiona knew he was beaming as widely as Madam de Fer. Commander Cullen's face was the face of Templar, his cold eyes so full of disappointment at the destructive blunders of mages. Pentaghast's face was nearly as stern as the Inquisitor's, looking ready to carry out an execution if such a sentence passed the Inquisitor's lips.

There were no friends here. There were few friends left anywhere. She had few cards left in her hand and few resources left at her disposal. There was little else left to lose in this war. What little she had left, she had to protect.

"Your worship," Fiona said, bowing her head again in a soft tone.

Perhaps he expected her to fall on her knees. To apologize, accept responsibility, plead for mercy and weep upon his boots. If she had little more than desperation to cling to, she might have done it all. But she and the other mages had so little left to lose except their lives that doing the expected hardly mattered any more.

Instead, Fiona gambled what little she had left.

"The disaster caused here by the Mages Collective is reprehensible," she said, lifting her head and her eyes now to lock with the Inquisitor. "But the damage would have been far greater had I not persuaded you to allow me to investigate this lead."

The Inquisitor flinched, obviously not expecting such defiance. The smug smile across Vivienne's face quickly evaporated and before the First Enchanter could squeeze in a word, Fiona took the offensive.

"The Mages Collective would have been here tampering with this rift with or without our blessing. If we had not sent our agents to open a dialogue with them, they would have blown the rift open regardless, with the only difference being that hundreds more people from Cereaux would have received no warning at all to evacuate. The city would have been swallowed by a wave of demons and it would be weeks more before the Inquisition ever heard word of this catastrophe in order to do something about it!"

Fiona took a bold step closer to the Inquisitior, his outstretched finger an inch from her chest now. "We have lost nothing from this endeavor that we would not have lost otherwise," she challenged. "By being here, the Enchanter and my agent were able to save many lives. The Templars sent by the First Enchanter were able to make a speedy return to Skyhold to get you here today before these demons spread further through the Orlesian Heartlands."

Trevelyan withdrew his hand, folding his accusing finger back into his palm and relaxed his aggressive stance slightly.

"Inquisitor, you cannot-" Vivienne began before Fiona cut her off.

"If you require someone to take the blame for this disaster to appease the Orlesians, I volunteer to surrender myself as a political sacrifice," she said. "But it would be grossly unjust to punish all of my mages for this calamity when they had nothing to do with it. The Collective does not act under my guidance or my banner. I will take the fall if I must, but my mages are not any more responsible for what happened here than the First Enchanter's."

Vivienne was stewing in silent fury, her fingers curled into a discreet fist. The First Enchanter knew how to play the Game, but Fiona had not risen to become Grand Enchanter by bumbling her way through the Circles and royal courts of the six realms of the Orlesian Chantry.

The Inquisitor sat again, placing his elbow upon his leg and considering for a moment. Fiona knew she had already won this battle. His wrath was cut down with a deft choice of words. Trevelyan could see the reason in her words. There was no proof that Vell had done anything to incite the explosion. She had barely survived herself. The experiment was a failure, but not a failure that could have been prevented.

"The research is missing." Enchanter Taesas perhaps could not bite his tongue as well as Vivienne, or perhaps he was trained to speak for her.

Trevelyan lifted his head. "What research?"

"The Collective," the Enchanter continued. "They had kept multiple books and journals detailing their experiments. They were not in the camp after the explosion. And there was one survivor. The leader's assistant, Thelric."

"I wasn't aware that any of the Collective mages survived," Commander Cullen said.

"Nor I," agreed Cassandra, her severe gaze piercing Fiona.

And the ploy began to unravel. The survivor had not gathered with the others in the camp. Years of living on the run from Templars and the Chantry had taught her to distrust large groups. That, and her mind appeared badly shaken, if not totally broken by the slaughter she witnessed upon the cliffs. No one, she thought, knew about the assistant. No one except Vell.

"Your worship, by the Enchanter's own account, he was in a pitched battle with the demons. He likely overlooked these journals he speaks of in the confusion of the fight," Fiona said.

"That's not the case, your worship," the Enchanter countered. "Because I specifically made an effort to find them. To destroy them. So that no one foolishly risks this type of destruction again."

A dagger's blow. Of course he had tried to destroy it. He would destroy anything that he did not understand, anything that was not sanctioned by his master.

"Where is the survivor?" Trevelyan asked, a hint of frustration and malice creeping back into his voice.

"I do not know, your worship," Fiona said.

"She's lying." Vivienne.

"Vell is missing as well." The Enchanter.

"Where is your agent, Grand Enchanter?" the Inquisitor demanded.

"I do not know, your worship."

"Fiona, your lies are pathetic." Vivienne again.

" _Where_ is your agent, Fiona?" The Inquisitor's tone was harsher. More threatening.

"I. Do. Not. Know." She said it slowly, sternly. With emphasis. Let the Inquisitor mistrust her. Let him punish her, if he had to. She could not turn over that which she did not have. "She was told to remain. She is impetuous and headstrong and extremely mistrustful of the powers of the Circle and Chantry. I'm sure the Enchanter can attest to that."

Vivienne's dog did not respond at that, merely curled his lip. But both he and his master knew there was truth there. Vell would not sit idly and wait to be punished. The Templars had stripped enough of her pride and dignity.

"Find her," the Inquisitor said to his commander, while keeping his eyes pasted on Fiona. "Now."

"Yes, your worship." Cullen bowed his head and quickly exited the standoff, happy to be able to remove himself from the confrontation.

The Inquisitor rubbed his forehead with his fingertips, his patience stripped and his frustration laid bare. "Why do I not believe a word that comes out of your mouth, Grand Enchanter?"

"With respect, your worship, it is because the counsel of the First Enchanter has poisoned your thoughts, plugged your ears and closed your mind to all except her agenda," Fiona dared. The stakes had turned considerably against her now. Another gamble was necessary. If she escaped this audience without her hands fettered, it would be a miracle.

It was no secret that Vivienne had asserted herself into his close company. She traveled with him into the field. She dined with him frequently at Skyhold. He had been spied often lounging on her fluffy couch learning what he could of the Orlesian culture she had wrapped around her finger. There were rumors quietly circulating around Skyhold that their relationship was growing to be more than one of professional convenience. Rumors Fiona had cautiously started.

"Perhaps I was wrong to trust that you were capable of leading us," Fiona said. "It appears the First Enchanter has gained only another pet firmly leashed to her hand."

Fiona had time to slightly turn her cheek as the blow from Pentaghast's fist glanced across the side of her face. If she had not expected it to come at her insolence, the punch might have broken her jaw. She tumbled to the ground, letting herself hang limply as Cassandra's fingers threaded through her hair, yanking her up to her knees and pulling back her head to expose her throat. Although the Seeker did not carry a blade, she prepared Fiona for a spiritual execution.

"This snake besmirches your honor and authority," Cassandra said to her lord, her fingers twisting Fiona's hair harder in her clutch. "This disobedience cannot go unpunished, Inquisitor!"

Fiona laughed defiantly and spat blood from her throbbing mouth. "And here I am, forced to my knees and compelled to submit. You swore us alliance, Inquisitor. Was it a lie?"

The Inquisitor waved his hand, signalling for Cassandra to release her. The Seeker let go of Fiona's hair, thrusting her down toward the ground as she huffed and stormed out of tent.

Fiona stretched her jaw, slowly wiping her tongue around her teeth and mopping up the blood from the inside of her cheek. She pushed herself up from the dirt, rising again before the Inquisitor, casually dusting herself off and restoring her dignity.

"I am a man of my word," Trevelyan said threateningly. "But you would be wise not to further test the limits of my grace, Grand Enchanter.

"You do not want to make an enemy of me."

A promise.

"I am not your enemy, your worship," Fiona said with a courteous bow of her head.

"I would advise that you reconsider whether those who give you counsel have the Inquisition's best interest at heart," she lifted her eyes now, glancing to Vivienne and her pet. "Or their own."

Vivienne had the audacity to smile. A challenge accepted. An exchange of thrusts and ripostes delivered and executed. And the Game continued.

The small, hidden Grey Warden outpost was not far from Ceraux. Deep within the wooded Heartlands, it was far from the road and from prying eyes. A small fort, built at the site of a cleft that had spilled darkspawn into Orlais long, long ago in the Second Blight. The entrance had been sealed for centuries, the outpost forgotten to all but the few Wardens patrolling the Heartlands and seeking shelter for the night.

It was there that they had handed her the ritual chalice filled with the stinking darkspawn blood and lyrium and commanded her drink. Two recruits lie dead around her, their breath choked and stopped by the poisonous concoction. When she imbibed it, the rush of horror and sickness that tore through her consciousness was something she would never forget.

Fiona did not feel the hive of the darkspawn mind any more. She had broken free of the taint, the accident shirking her of her duty, responsibility and grim fate. Now, her mind was only filled with the thoughts of her mages, their collective yearning for freedom and dignity, their concern and fear weighing upon her heavier than Blight ever had.

She prayed that Vell could find the outpost in the darkness, with Thelric and her bag of books safely in tow.

All Fiona's gambles depended upon it.


	15. Chapter 15

**Fifteen**

With her eyes closed, Vell could feel the subtle motion of the Veil.

Her body moved with its currents, swinging slightly to the left, feeling the energy twisting around her, embracing her like a dancing partner sweeping deftly across the floor. She bathed in the flow, her feet twirling across the dusty stone floor of the underground chamber.

"Yes, yes, yes," Thelric cooed. "Move with it. Not against it. Never against it. Do not struggle. Do not struggle."

Her hands bounced in front of her, her fingers shaking and her wrists sweeping as if she conducted an orchestra. Thelric hummed to herself, her flat tone going from soft to quiet and back again. She did not blink. She rarely ever blinked. She was unable to unsee.

Vell's teacher had only grown more eccentric with time, her mind always dangling perilously on the edge of madness. But staring down the abyss of insanity, Thelric had found genius.

"It feels you. You feel it. Together, together, together. Never against it. Never against it."

Vell _could_ feel it. It had always been there, Thelric said. They had merely been blind to it. They needed to open their eyes, to break the box the Chantry had put them in, to truly _feel_ for the first time. The Veil obscured the Fade from the physical world. It was not truly a barrier. It was everywhere at once but simultaneously nowhere where one could reach out and touch it. To understand it, to see it and feel it and know it, a mage could control it.

Vell could feel it now, the Veil floating all around her like a sheer curtain fluttering in the breeze of an open window. As she blended into it, melding herself into it, she could move it.

"Now! Now, now, now, now, now," Thelric chattered.

The current pulled her left and Vell moved with it, her arms sweeping across her body in gentle strokes. The energy swirled around her, surrounding her.

And then, she moved it.

The crack of the Veil echoed through the chamber, the greenish wall of energy tearing forward as she threw her hands back to the right. And as the Veil moved, she followed, her feet pressing hard against the black stone, her body floating in the wake of the energy she tossed with ease. She swam in its currents, feeling it.

The wave of force hit the wall, a loud crack as it rumbled the stones. Vell's feet dug down, a hard stop, the feedback of the strike coming over her, the Veil shifting right. She followed it, sensing the energy moving upward. She reached for it, her hands pulling it down, slamming it into the ground, another wall of green light screaming around the blast as it punched downward like a fist.

The energy broke, scattering in a ring, the dust between the stone bricks poofed into a plume at the powerful strike. It radiated out in all directions, a crater in the Veil. Vell stretched out her hands, catching the fleeing energy in her palms, redirecting it and throwing it back into center. The two balls of power whistled, twisting as they pulled toward the depression she had left, the two spheres of energy crashing, colliding, bursting in a flash and explosion of force.

Vell's feet stood firm against the stone, feeling the wind and light wash over her, sensing the Veil recovering, the rising and falling waves of the Veil leveling themselves out, the high places rushing into the low until all was filled and gently shifting again in the air, all around her and yet nowhere at all.

It had taken three months. Three months of starts and stops. Three months of isolation and secrecy. Three months of decoding and translating Thelric's confused and broken thoughts into practice.

And now, she controlled the magic of the rifts. The magic the Collective had paid for with blood and souls. The magic Fiona had ordered her to learn at all costs.

The small scrap of paper the Grand Enchanter had pushed into her palm was hastily scratched. Fiona's eyes darted around, making sure that no one's eyes lingered on them too long.

"They will have my head for this, but I will not let them have yours," Fiona said, rolling Vell's fingers into a fist around the paper. "Take the woman. Protect her. Do not let this magic die, no matter the cost."

The Inquisitor would summon her in time, to make her account for the disaster in the cliffs and the destruction of Ceraux. They would want Thelric. They would make her answer for what had happened. Vell knew all too well what that would mean. Even though the Templars did not carry the weight of the Chantry behind them any more, Vell knew they would give her no mercy and no sanctuary.

"It is a small Warden outpost. Shrouded and protected by the magic of the Wardens," Fiona said as her index finger traced a pattern on the top of Vell's closed hand, leaving streaks of white magic on her skin. "This rune will be your key. Take refuge there. They will come looking for you but they will not find you. When it is safe, I will send for you."

Fiona looked over her shoulder, watching as the Inquisition soldiers shifted and prepared to change in guard. "You must go now. Take the woman and go. I will buy you what little time I can."

She found Thelric in the wood, the woman clutching the sack of books and papers tightly to her chest, sitting under a tree, staring up into its branches, her body rocking back and forth. She muttered to herself.

"There was no resistance, no resistance. The power flows without stop. Why? Why, why, why? No resistance. Always flowing," Thelric mused, her fingers pushing into the canvas bag in the spaces between the books that filled it.

"We have to go," Vell said, grabbing Thelric by the wrist and dragging the older woman to her feet.

"Go? Where are we going? Going, going, gone."

"Away from here," Vell said, tugging her into the wood. "The Templars are coming for you and your books."

"No! No, no, no. Not my books. She died for this. She died for this." The mage hugged the bag tighter to her chest and her feet began to move in the direction that Vell guided her. If there was one thing and only one thing that spoke to the damaged Thelric, it was the safety of her books.

They moved as quickly through the wood as they could in the fading sunlight, their feet stomping down in an ankle-deep carpet of leaves, the sounds of songbirds fading and the call of the birds of night begin to supplant their voices. The paper Fiona had given her had precious little information.

" _Keep just left of the rising moon. Follow the shallow stream. Find the stones."_

Vell had no idea what that meant as she tromped through the wood, hoping that she was heading in the direction and not blowing past this outpost Fiona spoke of. An outpost? When the Templars came looking, how would they not find some fort, even if it was standing in the middle of the woods? Maybe Fiona was more broken and insane than Thelric?

When the sun dipped low and the moon began to shine in the sky, she lined it up in her vision, turned her hips slightly left and began walking. The fading orange sunlight and the strengthening beams of pale moonlight were barely enough to illuminate the forest and Vell could barely see anything beyond the thick, black outlines of the thick tree trunks. Even those she could barely see until she was nearly on top of them.

Then she heard the quiet trickle of water nearby. And she turned a little to the left and her foot splashed down in the thin stream of water snaking through the forest. Follow the stream. She walked along its narrow channel, barely deep enough to even trickle along, but the slight downward pitch of the ground carried it forward.

And there was a subtle shimmer of light, the magic mark upon her hand glowing slightly in the darkness. A stone, a small, round stone sitting in the middle of the stream glowed too, reacting the closeness of Fiona's magic. She pressed on, passing another marker and another, until she came upon the boulders in the middle of the wood, in a grove surrounded by the husks of long-dead, fallen trees succumbing to a slow rot. The stream disappeared under the massive stones, falling underground.

That same, subtle, magic light began to glow again, but this time it revealed a narrow crevice, a camouflaged hatch in the ground. When Vell gave it a tug, the stone-painted door creaked open, revealing a narrow staircase underground.

The small, underground outpost had been her home for three long months. It had been packed with supplies, goods magically sealed and squirreled away. How long they had been there and what the Wardens had been storing it for, she didn't know. The carved-out rooms were small but there were many of them. The stairs continued down until they came to a great steel and stone door, showing signs of rust but otherwise standing tall, thick and closed.

It was only then that Vell noticed the dwarven features of it. What was above might have originally been dug out by dwarves, but it had always been a place for humans. Down below, standing in front of the door, she realized that this must have been an entrance to some dwarven thaig, or, at least, to the Deep Roads.

 _Sealed 3:23_

The message was still visible, painted across large face of the gate. There was a place in the center of the door that might once have contained a handle or wheel or something to open it. But it was long gone, the remaining housing a melted lump of metal. The center, where the two doors met, was also melted together. The large hinges on either side had been treated the same.

The only way through would have been to tunnel through the wall and around it. She couldn't guess how thick the door was, but the rap of her knuckles on it suggested that it was several feet of solid metal.

The cold, blocky stone walls and the narrow corridors reminded Vell too much of the Circle. Hidden away from the world, everything happening within kept secret. The only difference was that, when the cramped rooms and low ceilings became too suffocating, she could open the hatch and walk out into the wood. She could walk barefooted and splash in the cold water of the forest stream. She could sit on a carpet of leaves and watch birds flying from branch to branch and squirrels climbing tree trunks. She could sit out in the darkness, her eyes lifted to the sky in the clearing and watch the stars circle the black blanket of midnight for as long as she wanted.

And although Fiona had asked her not to leave, to stay and wait, Vell knew that she could run. She could turn and point herself in any direction and just begin walking. She could leave her staff behind, find a village or a city and abandon it all.

But she was still an elf, worth less than a human. And she would still be a mage and someone would find out eventually. And there would still be other mages out there, in the Inquisition or hiding in the dark places where no one came looking, hanging in the gray area between freedom and bondage.

So Vell waited.

The Grand Enchanter had trusted her. Why, she still didn't understand. But she owed a little trust in return, perhaps.

"Good," Thelric said. "Good, good, good."

She stood, the soles of her bare feet so filthy they were black. Her hair had been graying before, but now Vell thought it looked even more white and brittle than it had. Her features had grown gaunt. She barely ate or slept. Every waking moment she spent talking to herself and leafing through the pages of her research, scratching down new items, rearranging old work, scattering everything across the floor only to pick it up and shuffle it together in a different order.

When Thelric did sleep, she thrashed and screamed and clawed at the air. She did not speak of her dreams, but Vell knew that nightly she replayed every moment of Julion's final, failed experiment. The burst of light and force. Julion exploding into bits. The demons pouring out of the rift.

Even Vell dreamt of it some nights, the spiny terror demon stalking toward her. She would turn to run, only to find her legs full of lead, each step an agonizing struggle to make. The demon's shriek and whine always grew louder as it got closer until it stood right behind her, its arm raising to strike. Vell always jerked awake before its claws fell across her back.

Thelric swayed around the room, her eyes closed, her arms stretched out as she felt the Veil around her. Her body twisted with every bend of the Veil around her, feeling things on a level that Vell couldn't when she gave herself into the flow of the ether. Thelric hummed to herself, odd music that only she could hear, a colorful aura of magic wrapping itself around her, wreathing her in a green flame.

She did not manipulate it as Vell did. She did not form it into spells. She did not wield it as a weapon. She did not pull power from it to fuel more orthodox schools of magic. She would only dance in it, wrapping herself in a blanket of green light and swaying back and forth in its tides, sometimes for hours. It was her magic and Vell knew that she would never understand it quite like Thelric did.

Whatever she was before, the trauma had taken away from her. From what little, coherent conversation Vell could carry on with her, it appeared her memory and life began with the explosion at the cliffs. Where she had grown up, how she had learned magic, what she had done with the Collective prior to that night, all of those were gone. She knew Julion. She knew all the names of the eighteen others. She knew they were all dead although she could not recall why or how.

She did not even remember her own name. She only referred to herself now as Your Trainer. If she knew Vell's name, she never spoke it. She only called Vell by what she was, My Pupil.

All she knew now were the words scratched upon paper and in books. Her words. Her research. Her magic.

When they had first found the outpost and settled in, Thelric spilled her books out of the bag and began going through them. Reading them aloud. Tearing pages out and placing them in piles. Crossing out lines and scratching in new ones. The single candle she lit had burned down nearly to nothing, the dull orange, bobbing flame the only companion she kept day and night. She did not sleep. She barely blinked. Her eyes darted back and forth, her lips constantly muttering, her hands always moving from one page to another.

And then after three days without sleep, she smothered the flame of the candle between two fingers, closed her eyes, slept sitting up for an hour, maybe two. When she awoke, she spoke only a simple announcement over and over.

"Never against it. She died for this. Never against it. She died for this. Never against it. She died for this…"

It was the first day Thelric danced with the Veil. And she had not stopped since.

Never against it.

The three words were the basis of everything she had thought Vell since. Julion and the others had erred. They tried to pull from the rift the same way they channeled mana across the barrier. They pulled it like it was a string. Grabbing a point. Pulling what was needed and cutting the string.

Never against it.

The rifts, the Veil, the Fade itself, they were not the same. They had no beginning and no end. They were everywhere at once. The power came from the infinite nature of the Veil itself and the raw Fade that it held back from the world. Why control just a small rivulet of water when you could move the oceans themselves?

Never against it.

Julion did not understand that. She punched a hole in the dike expecting the flow to slowly pour through. She shattered the barrier and drowned in the flood. The rifts were not a power that could be controlled. But if you knew it was there, you could fall inside of it and move with it. You could embrace it, become it and gain a power far beyond any of the orthodox teachings.

Never against it.

"I'm going topside for a bit," Vell said as Thelric spun past her, her arms dragging through the air in unusual ways. But the green flames upon her body twisted happily with every movement.

"Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Be well, My Pupil." Thelric hummed, coming to an abrupt stop, her left foot raising slightly and sliding up her calf. Her hands reached high above her head, slowly trickling down, fingers raking lightly across her face and down her neck as if bathing in some unseen ecstasy.

Vell would never understand her magic quite like that.

She left the training room, swinging quickly by the small, boxy chamber she had made her sleeping quarters. She scooped up one of the sticks of dried meat from the table and the stone cup half-filled with water. She bounded up the stairs, two at a time, sticking the jerky in her mouth as she slowly opened the hatch to the outside world.

Vell peeked her head up, her eyes narrowing as she squinted through the darkness, checking for wild beasts, darkspawn, Templars, Inquisition and Loyalists. As usual, there was nothing in the grove except dead trees, small birds and the wind. She quickly popped out from underground and closed the hatch below her, swinging up onto one of the large, black boulders.

The sky was clear tonight and the stars were vibrant. She rested her elbows across her knees, tore a piece of salty jerky between her teeth and rested her cup on the flat spot on the stone. She inhaled, smelling the subtle dampness of the air as the trees went to sleep. She tossed her head back, looking up to the stars, tracing the patterns she saw. They had names, she knew, but she had never learned them. So she gave them her own. The Skinny W. Blue box. Fat Cat. Giant Curvy Man Rod.

She chuckled to herself as she traced the pattern, the stars stretching across the sky, the slight upward curve the line she drew from point to point made. It had been three months, and outside the man rod in the sky, she hadn't missed men or wine or pillows nearly as much as she thought she might.

Here, there was a simpleness and quietness to everything.

"We must be getting close…" The quiet, male voice bent through the trees, a small pinpoint of light catching Vell's eyes.

It was dark and the moon was away. They wouldn't be able to see her if she didn't love. Vell placed the jerky between her teeth and squinted again. Her eyes adjusted to the dark, pupils widening and narrowing on the small dab of white light approaching. There were shadowy figures moving around the light.

"There! Another one."

Their steps splashed in the water of the stream, crunching leaves. The light was too white, too pure. They made no metal sounds. As they grew closer, the shadows were thin and wiry.

"Hold it there!" Vell said quietly as they approached within twenty paces of her. Her wrist popped up as she let a small ball of fire roll into her open palm, illuminating the grove.

Five mages stood just before her, one of them carrying a small ball of light in his palm and a familiar rune traced on the top of his other hand. They quickly snapped backward at the sudden voice and spark of fire. Their leader, the one holding the light, raised his hand to calm his traveling companions.

"You're Vell, I take it," he said.

"Who sent you?" she asked. One of the mages was slowly reaching back for his staff. "Don't! Don't move."

"Stop it," the leader scolded to the others, his hands waving them down. "Grand Enchanter Fiona sent us. She said you'd recognize this."

He lifted his hand, displaying the same white magic rune that Fiona had drawn upon her three months ago. They must have followed the same route as she did, tracing the river under the cover of darkness.

"I'm Vell," she offered, dropping herself down off the boulder and onto the ground. She stepped toward the mages, extending her free hand to the leader.

"Merin," he said, meeting her hand with his own. He was elven, too. Dark black hair, cropped short to his head, dark eyes. His voice was blunt and gritty. "Fiona sends her apologies that it took so long. The Inquisitor has been keeping a very close eye on her. But the smoke has cleared enough, for now."

The other four mages were all human. Three men. One woman. All young. The girl barely looked old enough to be Harrowed. She had an arrogant smirk on her face. She was a cocky bitch, for sure.

"Where are we going? Back to Skyhold?" Vell asked.

"No," Merin answered. "None of us. We've been assigned to stay here. You're going somewhere else. Fiona gave us sealed instructions."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small parcel, wrapped in paper and tied with string. He handed it over to Vell.

"But before you go, there's one more thing," Merin said.

Vell raised an eyebrow.

"Grand Enchanter's orders," the elf said with a smile. "Show us what you've learned. Because we're here to learn it next."


	16. Chapter 16

**Sixteen**

Vivienne swatted aside the last of the walking corpses with a pulse of fire from her hand, continuing down the road as if she were marching to the Chantry for feast-day services.

The Templars and Inquisition soldiers sheathed their blades and the horses and wagons began to move again.

Taesas resumed his place at the First Enchanter's right side, a half step behind her. His staff twirled around his side and hooked into the clip on his back. He had donned lighter armor today and no cape. His shield dangled from the side of his mount.

The highway through the Exalted Plains was sloppy and not secured, but the threat was small. They had run across a few straggling demons, but most of the delay was due to shambling corpses that shuffled along the road. Slow and clumsy, the corpses were a minor annoyance and nothing more. Behind them, Vivienne led an entire battalion of Inquisition soldiers Commander Cullen had dispatched to reinforce their forward camp. Inquisitor Trevelyan would be headed this way after stopping in Skyhold, and the news from the plains had not been good.

Celene's and Gaspard's armies were still clashing from time to time and the self-proclaimed Freeman of the Dales were a menace to both. All three sides were also suffering raids and strikes from Ambassador Briala's elves who arrived out of thin air, attacked and disappeared just as quickly. The plains were war-torn and weary.

Vivienne had volunteered for the assignment. Neither of the royal armies would dare to strike her. If the Freeman or the elves were foolish enough to try, she would make them regret the transgression.

"It looks like they've done nothing to secure the area," Taesas said as he stepped over one of the charred corpses slumped halfway across the road. It stank of rot and char.

The rocky cliffs narrowed into a lane and they could see the black banners of the Inquisition camp ahead. It was a defensible area, one way in and one way out. Taesas wasn't familiar with this particular area outside of maps. There were a few forts in the area, but no cities nearby and no noble estates for miles. This area of the plains had a few small villages, but little else of interest. Long ago this had been elven land, and, the rumors said, some Dalish still tried to make a home here. The bloody massacres that had occurred here cast dark superstitions over the area that many weren't willing to test.

"It is a failing we will rectify," Vivienne said, her chin slightly lifted as she walked the road, as tall and proud as ever.

The reasons for the shameful state of affairs on the plains was quickly apparent as they arrived in camp. There were few Inquisition soldiers left. A pile of burnt bones was still smoldering to the east. Several of the tents were damaged and others were piled into a refuse pile, totally destroyed. A Chantry acolyte was preparing three bodies for cremation.

They were met by a warrior with a pair of waraxes hanging from either hip. Behind him, a brown mabari trotted at his heel. The dog was showing a few wounds, painted in blue stripes with grey fur showing around his jaws. The man was darker-skinned, dark-haired, with the look of a Fereldan wildling to him. His flesh was painted with the same blue markings as the dog. Animals, both of them.

"Good to see you," the warrior said with a short salute. "I'm Chykk. This is Snort."

The dog gave a short bark of greeting.

"Not a moment too soon," Chykk said. "We've been having a hell of a time here the last week. We're glad to see some reinforcements."

"Indeed," Vivienne said coolly. "We had to fight our way through dozens of corpses."

"Aye," the warrior said with a confirming nod. "It's been a mess here. Daily attacks. No end to them. They're wearing us down. Corpses jumped us in a storm two nights back and fucked the place hard. Templar managed to cut up a Tevinter blood mage. Didn't help, though, in the bigger picture."

Vivienne continued walking past him into the center of the camp, if it could be called a camp any more, and surveyed the area with her hands on her hips. Taesas hung back, eyeing the warrior.

"I will see to it that the losses end swiftly. I'll be taking command here. You are relieved," Vivienne said.

Chykk chuckled at the notion. "Begging your pardon, mage, but this is my camp."

"Yes, and you've done wonders with it," Vivienne said. "The orders, Taesas."

Taesas reached into his pocket, removing the folded and sealed letter from the hands of the Commander. He passed it over to the warrior, who didn't open it. Taesas wondered if he even knew how to read. He certainly had the look of a barbarian.

"Listen, mage-" Chykk started before Vivienne swiftly cut him off.

"You will refer to me as Imperial Enchanter," she corrected sternly.

The warrior ignored her. "We've been out here four weeks. We know the terrain. We've identified the threats."

"Excellent," Vivienne said. "Then you should have no problem relaying all of that intelligence to my lieutenants."

Vivienne pointed toward a clearing near the west end of the camp. "Set my tent over here. Templars to the north. The soldiers can fill in with the rest of the rank and file," she dictated to the camp followers who were attending the wagons.

The dog, who wore three partially-chewed yellow feathers at his collar, began to growl.

"Quiet your dog, soldier, or I will see to it myself," Vivienne said. "And then you and your men will make a patrol and sweep the area to the north and report back on the latest enemy position."

The barbarian scratched his dog behind the left ear and patted it on the head twice, quieting it. He turned away from Vivienne without another word and stomped off with his dog in tow.

"Helaine," Vivienne said as she continued to survey the pathetic, half-destroyed camp. "Take a patrol back along the road we came in on. I want it cleared, permanently. It will reflect poorly on myself and my work if the Inquisitor has to cut his way through a forest of corpses as we did."

The dark-haired knight enchanter gave a brief nod and went to her duties.

"Chairs!" Vivienne called out to the camp followers. Two workers scurried quickly, carrying the small wooden folding chairs and set them down in front of her. They were spartan, but she motioned to Taesas. "Sit."

He obliged, setting himself down and resting his staff across his lap. Vivienne lifted her leg, sliding it over as she crossed her legs in the defined, deliberate way she always did. The First Enchanter, as always, meant business. She folded her hands over her knee and lifted her eyes to him. She wanted something.

"What do you require of me?" Taesas asked, slouching back and striking a more relaxed and dismissive body language. The last time they had sat like this, it had been late at night on the mezzanine of Skyhold and he had taken advantage of her sleep-addled mind to eviscerate her for his purpose. Vivienne was awake and alert and had no doubt been plotting this encounter since the moment they left Skyhold.

Worse, he had no inkling of what she wanted.

"I must say, you're looking more hale then ever since you had an opportunity to flex all those muscles and that magic outside Ceraux," Vivienne said, choosing a cautious opening of flattery.

"I am a mere beggar cast upon his knees outside the temple of your beauty, Vivienne," he said, checking flattery with flattery. "Now, as ever."

Vivienne smiled with her eyes, as her lips stayed as taut and blank as usual. "You're going to Serault."

Taesas crossed his arms over his chest and smirked. "Am I? I'd much prefer to stay here, at your side," he said, smiling a bit wider. "To protect you."

"The Iron Bull happens to be a magnificent source of information, one that is being squandered by the Inquisition," Vivienne continued, ignoring his remark. "A Ben-Hassrath agent had stopped a rogue Saarebas years ago after the mage got his hands on a so-called 'Mask of Fen'Harel'. The artifact was said to be capable of tearing the Veil open in order to access the Fade."

"Sounds familiar," Taesas said, keeping his face blank, although inwardly he was jumping. If they were connected, it could be a major piece in determining how Corypheus had breached the sky.

"I have received word from a contact in Serault that she may have a lead for us," Vivienne said. She raised her hand, brushing her fingertips slowly from her eye back toward her ear as if she were pushing back a strand of hair that wasn't there. She dipped her eyes coyly and smiled.

Vivienne rarely smiled, and when she did, something bad was about to happen.

"There is a cult of Fen'Harel in the deep woods of the Tirashan," Vivienne said. "A Dalish clan."

A sudden pang of anxiety cut through Taesas and he squirmed in his seat. It was bad enough that she wanted him to travel all the way to Serault, a backwater of Orlais noteworthy for its glass and its long history of blasphemy and unorthodox quirks. But she wanted him to go back into the woods to make contact with a Dalish clan. There were many clans in the Tirashan. Still, one of them was his, once.

He leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. This wasn't the ideal posture to assume. It was weak and desperate. If this were a social calling, such a move would draw as much attention to him as if he cast himself aflame.

"No," Taesas growled.

Vivienne reached forward, her long, deft fingers sweeping under his chin. "Oh, Taesas, darling," she cooed. "You don't have a choice."

"Send Helaine," he said with the same focused tone as he pulled back from her mocking touch. He didn't have a leg to stand on. Even Vivienne was not immune to blackmail and secrets whispered. But as he tried to scan his memory for something, anything, to use, all he could feel was the sense of dread at having to walk the forests of his youth again.

"Helaine does not know the Dalish like you do," Vivienne said. "She would be killed on sight."

All of his information on her was useless. Baseless rumors. Petty, inconsequential slights. Minor matters that, even if they came to light, the Game wouldn't move to react. He regretted not having anything saved. He cursed himself for leaving himself so exposed. He had always left himself open to Vivienne. He did it as a courtesy to her, to prove his lasting loyalty and utility to her. She asked much, but he could not have fathomed she would ask _this._

"Please," he said. The word was a pathetic call for mercy. He would have laid down in the dirt at her feet if he thought it would make a difference. "Don't send me there."

"I'm sorry, Taesas," Vivienne said. She wasn't sorry. She needed something. She demanded it. She had the resources to call to get it done. Mercy was not given out of charity.

He pushed his body up from his knees, taking a deep breath. "Give me the Knight Enchanter training."

"No." Her response was blunt and instantaneous.

Knight Enchanters had to be sanctioned by the Chantry, mages trained in war to defend the faith. Only the most talented and most devout of the Enchanters were even considered. And only the humans, typically.

His training with the Templars was unofficially endorsed by the Chantry, but it was only the physical maneuvers of the Chantry's army. The Knight Enchanters also developed additional magical techniques tucked behind centuries of Chantry protection and secrecy.

"You pulled strings to get Helaine trained," Taesas noted.

"Helaine was born inside the Circle. She was the top of all of her peers as she came up through the Circle. And she had the blessing of the Divine herself," Vivienne said. "You were born Dalish. No matter what I say, the Chantry will never trust you at that level. And we have no Divine to vouch for you."

"You know I am superior to Helaine in every way," he spat. It sounded like a boast, but outside of her more convenient birth, she was inarguably his lesser.

"It's irrelevant, Taesas," Vivienne said.

"It _is_ relevant," he argued, more hotly than might be appropriate as he thrust his fist down in frustration. This was more weakness. Emotion did not serve in the Game.

And then it came to him, the notion he had been grasping for but unable to find. Late, but still timely enough to make a difference.

"The Collective's rift magic is loose and you have been unable to track it down. When you do, who will be the one sent to suppress it?" Taesas said, calming himself. "If you are going to throw me into danger, I need the proper tools. I won't be put at a disadvantage because Fiona is outplaying you."

Vivienne snorted derisively at his barb. "Darling, Fiona hasn't outplayed anyone in a long, long time."

"Where is Thelric? And where is Vell?" his point was quick and sharp. Despite her efforts, Vivienne had not been able to find either since Ceraux. She did not speak of it to anyone, him least of all. But she had been quietly inquiring and dispatching others of the Circle pawns she controlled.

"I might ask you, Taesas," Vivienne said calmly, changing her posture, sitting up straighter and pulling her shoulders back slightly. A challenge. "You were the one who conspicuously disappeared with her. You were the one that healed her wounds and let her walk away. You were the one who protected her and spared her the fate of the others upon the cliff. Others have dared to ask where your loyalties truly lie."

"Give me their names and I will silence their slanderous tongues," Taesas said.

"As a matter of pride or to silence their dissent?" Vivienne asked, raising an eyebrow to him. She was playing in hypotheticals. Dabbling in threads he knew she did not believe. She only tossed such pitiful rumor at him to frustrate and disarm him.

"I am _yours_ ," Taesas reminded her to kill her line of questioning. "If that is not enough for you any more, perhaps I should question where I spend my loyalty."

Vivienne leaned forward, bringing her face closer to his, a mere inch away as her hand slipped along the side of his neck. Her long fingers stretched up, slowly dragging across the lines of his jaw. Her entire face softened, a lover's mask. He could feel her breath.

Her other hand moved down, her fingertips lightly grazing the inside of his thigh, dancing upward toward his groin, slowly. And they stopped, just before, where the fabric was now taut with the instantaneous stiffness that had grown between his legs. Vivienne knew it it was there as her fingers waited just on the boundary.

Vivienne smiled and blinked, slowly, her long lashes sweeping over her dark eyes. She smelled of Montsimmard, of the west wind off Lake Celestine and the smell of fresh spring rain that bathed the tower, of fragrant smoke of the candles of the Enchanters quarters, of secrets and power and desire. She closed even more, her lips poised to kiss, moving closer to his mouth until her breath wrapped around his lips.

Taesas sat unmoving. He could move his head forward. He could claim the kiss she dangled before him. He could grab her now, one hand latched around her wrist, the other sweeping around her back. He could bring her to her feet, he could restrain her as he kissed her neck and slipped his tongue into her ear. He could lead her to her tent, he could lower her down to her bed and he could claim what he was due.

But he did none of those things, because this was just a game to her. The victory would ring hollow if he conquered and claimed what he deserved. He would not have her until she came to him in earnest, until she succumbed to him and begged for him. Not until she wanted him, until she smoldered and suffered for him in the way he suffered for her.

Vivienne sat poised before his lips, waiting, and chuckled softly to herself. Her hand slipped around the back of his head now, fingers cutting through his hair as she cradled his head.

"See, Taesas," she whispered, her eyes shut as she fixed a looked of feigned pleasure across her face. "You're not going anywhere. Except for Serault."

Taesas suppressed a shudder inside of him. His entire body was aflame. His groin was throbbing and swollen with anticipation and lust, a longing pain that radiated through his entire body. Vivienne did not play fair.

He swallowed and spoke slowly so that his desire did not betray his reason.

"Give me the training," he said, slow and steely. "And I will do as you command."

Vivienne paused and then pushed away from him even more quickly than she had descended upon him. She waved dismissively, annoyance on her face.

"Take Helaine, if you must. Your stubbornness exhausts me," she said. "Return to Montsimmard. I've arranged for someone to meet you there. She'll have the rest of the details you need."

Vivienne stood, checking the progress of her tent behind her. The servants worked incredibly quickly. The tent was erected and they were carrying in Vivienne's lavish, unreasonable furniture, unsuitable for a field camp. Appearances mattered, even outside the comfortable walls of Orlais' cities and manors.

"Now begone," Vivienne said, brushing him away as if he were any other elven servant in a noble house. "Don't return until you have done what I ask."

She turned sharply, marching her way toward her tent, cutting between the servants carrying chairs and cushions dressers, forcing them to move out of her way. They parted quickly from her wrath. When she slipped through the folds of the tent and out of sight, Taesas exhaled for what felt like the first time since he sat down.

The sense of dread of the mission had yet to set in. There would be time for that. It likely wouldn't hit until he saw the prismatic spire of the Thousand-Windowed Castle of Chateau Serault and the green and brown of the massive Tirashan stretching as far as could be seen into the west.

There was much that needed to be done before he had to compel himself to cross the barrier between civilization and the lawless wild once more.


	17. Chapter 17

**Seventeen**

The two rivers collided in a rocky confluence dozens of feet wide and Vell had been watching the clear water from the west and the muddy water from the north collide for half the day.

 _Go to where the Celestine River and the Foret River meet. My contact will meet you there._

Fiona's fucking cryptic instructions didn't say who she was supposed to meet. Or how they would know she was there. Or what time of damned day they would show up.

Sure, the scenery was pretty, but she had spent the last three months cooped up in an underground fort in the middle of a forest. Everything that wasn't that rocky grove looked nice.

But then she had walked for days through a forest. Now she was in a somewhat lightly forested area sitting on a boulder and waiting for someone who might not even show up. Even if they did, she didn't have any idea what they looked like. She'd probably end up walking off with some pervert. Then she'd have to break shatter his breastbone and maybe break his jaw or something. It would all be very messy and gratuitous.

There was a small village down near where the rivers met. Maybe she was supposed to go there? She had decided not to. She was an elf and mage. The farther she could stay away from any Orlesian settlements, the better. There didn't appear to be a Chantry chapel or anything from what she could see in the distance, but backwoods villagers were probably just as bigoted as the Templars. She brushed her finger across the six rings in her ear as she turned her gaze away from the village again.

The Veil felt very calm and fluid here. In their forest hideout, the ethereal curtain, like them, was so cooped up and confined. Underground it was old and stale. And something never felt right, especially the deeper she went and the closer she got to the permanently sealed metal door blocking the way down to the Deep Roads. The connection seemed to grow thinner and thinner, harder to feel and harder to touch. Perhaps that was why the dwarves couldn't weave spells? Maybe the Veil couldn't exist deep underground.

Vell shook her head, tossing out the philosophical musings on the origins and working of magic, and dug her hand into her pocket for more of the salty, hard jerky she had subsisted off of for months. Once she had enjoyed the subtle spices, the saltiness and the way it softened and kind of melted if she held it in her cheek and let it swim in her saliva. Now it just tasted incredibly dry and bland and continued to be a pain in the ass to chew.

Was this what freedom was like?

Living in the woods? Eating strips of meat that were dried and pressed until they were harder than shoes? Listening to birds and watching rivers and sitting on rocks? Seeing a town and being too worried to go inside of it?

Vell had never been so naive to think that some day she would walk out of the Circle and be someone important. But she had expected that she might live some kind of normal life. Maybe get a job somewhere. Make a few friends. Walk in a market. Learn to cook. Jingle a few coins around in a purse. Buy a some stupid shoes or a hat or something she didn't need just because she could. Have a home. Meet someone. Someone worthwhile. Fall in love. Have a child. Maybe two children. Feed them. Care for them. Not fuck sailors for money and then get lit up on spice every night. The basics.

Instead she was prancing around the forest like an _elf._ Following orders from an _Orlesian_. Struggling and fighting for some _freedom_ that wasn't defined and wasn't guaranteed and she wasn't even totally sure what that meant now. She was out of the Circle. That was step one.

Haven had been fun, before it got torched. Skyhold had been fun, before she got tricked into dancing Fiona's tune. Ceraux had been fun, too, until everyone got blown up.

Worse, she was only alive now because of Tae. The rift was barfing demons and energy and she couldn't even stand up or get her eyes to focus. Then he had swooped in there like some Maker-damned noble knight. Protected her. Saved her. Healed her.

He had been staring down a dozen demons, at least, watching as other mages were being ripped apart and he stood there so calm. When he lurched into action, every step looked like he had practiced it a thousand times. His spells struck with both ferocity and control, his body slipping in and out as he attacked the demons and withdrew to defend. He was preparing new spells before he even finished casting the ones spilling off his fingers or bursting from his staff.

For all of the Templars she had killed, all of the fire she threw around backed with all the frustration and rage inside of her, and all of the raw, wild power she let take hold of her, it was blatantly clear that she was the lesser.

Vell placed the piece of jerky between her teeth, jerking her head back like a wild dog as she ripped another chunk away. The sky was starting to turn orange, purple and pink as the sun began its descent. And she was still sitting here, on a rock, following some one line direction Fiona had scratched on a piece of paper she probably wiped her ass with. She was probably sitting in the library in Skyhold, drinking _Orlesian_ wine and eating _Orlesian_ cheese with all the other _Orlesians_ who came to visit.

Vell chucked the back half off her jerky down toward the river and pushed herself up from the rock.

Enough waiting. She didn't know where she was going to go, but she didn't want to be sitting here waiting any more. Maybe she could just head back to the forest fort and see whether the other mages were able to translate Thelric's rambling into practice. Or she could try to slip back into Skyhold and get her hands on a bottle.

"Fuck this," she said to herself as she slung her pack over her shoulder.

"Going somewhere?"

The male voice came from her behind her and she spun, her hands instinctively rolling into fists, her weight shifting onto her back leg, reaching out to the Veil to grab the curtain around her and prepare to strike.

Behind her, only a few feet from where she was sitting, was another elf, sitting on another one of the large stones, his arm lazily draped over his bent knee as he lounged there.

"How did you-"

"Did this one not hear me approach?" he said, lifting his hand slightly, smirking. "This one has been here for many songs of birds."

She hadn't heard him. He had a long, elven bow slung across his back. A quiver full of arrows hanging over his shoulder. A curved, elven blade at his hip. He was wearing a dull tan leather armor, with plenty of belts and buckles holding it all together. His feet were wrapped for support, but otherwise his flesh was bare to the ground.

He should have made noise. Enough noise for her to hear, at least. Or at least enough noise for her to notice him if he'd been there for an hour. She had turned around at least a few times during that stretch, right?

"You could have said something, instead of sitting there watching me like some creeper for an hour," the Dalish said.

"This one has been watching you all morning, since this one first arrived," he said. "This one really should be more observant of this one's surroundings."

Now Vell was getting pissed. Of course Fiona would find the most obnoxious escort for her. Some damned Dalish stalker with a smug smile. No doubt he would start preaching about elven gods and "The Dalish this" and "The Dalish that" and "Back in the days of Arlathan…"

"So I've been sitting here all day waiting for you-"

"This one has also been standing and walking around," he interrupted. "And doing this with this one's hands." The Dalish lifted his hands, sweeping them around in front of his body slowly, mockingly imitating her forms.

Vell squeezed her fingers together tighter, grunting to try to contain herself. She took a slow, angry breath. "Fiona sent you?"

He nodded with a smile, his eyes scrunching together into two small, horizontal lines.

"And you are?"

"This one is Vell," he said, smirking again, pointing to her.

She squeezed her fingers into her fist again, choking back more frustration. "Yes, I'm Vell," she said between her teeth.

"And this one is Ghilathen," he said, turning his two fingers and pointing back to himself. "Is this one ready to go now, _ma'len_?"

"I'm not your _ma'len_ , Ghilathen," Vell warned. She didn't know what he was calling her, but she knew that it sounded elven. She didn't want to be anything elven.

"This one prefers Ghi," he said.

"I'm not your _ma'len,_ " she said again with a growl. " _Ghi._ "

"Ah, but this one _is_ but _len_ ," Ghi continued, ignoring her as he slid down onto his feet, toes pressing down into the soil. "A little too tall to be _da'len,_ yet thin enough. Does the _shem_ Circle not feed this one?"

"I'm not a _shem_ and I'm not part of the Circle," Vell said.

Ghi continued on, still not listening to whatever she was saying.

"Vell. Vell," he said, testing the name as he pressed two fingers to his lips and considered it. "Not elvish, no. Perhaps this one was meant to be _Val_? 'Word.' But what word? The _shems_ use that, 'Val' to mean city. Word and city are not alike at all. Silly _shems_."

Vell lifted her left fist before her mouth, biting the edge of her finger to keep herself from screaming as the Dalish elf began to circle her, looking her up and down more closely. The sun continued to slip behind the trees. "I'm. Not. Elvish."

"This one's ears say different, _ma'len,_ " Ghi answered with a quiet titter chattering between his teeth.

Vell swung. Her right hand hooked across her body, her fist ripping through the air toward his jaw.

Ghi's hand came up swiftly, his wrist blocking and knocking the strike aside. The motion, the swiftness, the anticipation, the fluidity. All of it together was as practiced and perfect as the days in the Circle with Angelo. That only made her more angry as she thought of him, but only saw the annoying elf before her.

His arm rolled quickly, sweeping around her sleeve, his hand clamping down around her. In one swift move, he had spun her around, twisting her arm painfully back and forcing her body and face down toward the ground. She was forced to put her left hand down before she crashed into the dirt. She could feel the light pressure of his foot on her back as he held her extended her.

"Let go of me!" Vell demanded. She'd give him one chance. Then she was really going to burst on him. She tried to squirm, but he had an exceptionally firm hold on her wrist and there was a sharp pressure in her shoulder. Too much of a move and he'd pop it right out of the socket. Not that she couldn't kill him with one arm dangling useless from the side of her body...

"This one is much too - what do the _shems_ say? - hot of head? Why does Fiona send this one to Ghi to be led?"

Vell began to gather power around her, dragging the Veil in toward her free hand. She pulled the currents of the magic toward her so that she could use them to crush him. Then she'd see if he'd be so haughty and elfy with her.

As the power began to slip toward her hand though, she felt the press of his foot harder on her back, pushing her closer to the ground and increasing the pressure on her shoulder. She couldn't help but grunt as she felt the tissue begin to twist.

"This one should not do that," Ghi said. "Ghi is not this one's enemy. And this one should not be playing with magic she does not understand."

What did he know about her magic? And how did he even know she was pulling the magic toward her? She stopped, taking a heaving breath as she grunted again at another lance of pain as she tried to keep as still as possible.

"What do you know about my magic?" she asked.

"Ghi knows that it is little known to this one, but better known to the Elvhen. Ghi knows that this one likes to use this one's gifts to kill. And Ghi knows that this one will not survive the Tirashan if this one does not listen," he said. She could feel his toes lift one by one and drum across her back. No doubt he was smirking again.

"Let me go," Vell said.

"If this one will listen to Ghi?"

Vell was silent for a moment, clenching her teeth together. There was another small push of pressure on her back and Vell grunted again. "Yes!" she shouted. "I'll fucking listen to you."

"This one needs a kinder tongue," he said with another soft titter, then let her wrist go in one quick release. Her arm flopped down to her side and she quickly spun away from him, her left hand coming across the rub her sore shoulder. She glared out at him.

His facial tattoo was in dull green ink, two twisting horns that converged down the bridge of his nose. A simpler pattern just under his lower lip and down his chin. It was much less elaborate that pictures she had seen drawn in some of the books in the Circle. Much less elaborate than that one formerly Dalish Tranquil they kept at White Spire. Hers had covered most of her forehead and both cheeks and her chin.

Ghi was bald. Old, but not elderly and wrinkled, yet. His eyes were a dull brown like dirt. His right arm was tucked behind his back, his left hand fiddling with the white feathers on the arrows peeking over his shoulder, all jammed together in the rough leather quiver. And he was smirking again.

Vell shook out of her arm, trying to brush off the pain she was still feeling from having her shoulder twisted around in directions it wasn't supposed to. She eyed him suspiciously. She didn't like that he was Dalish. She didn't like that he was older. She didn't like that he was a man. And she didn't like that stupid smirk on his lips and the uppity way he talked down to her.

"Is this one finding problems with Ghi?" he asked as he watched her eyes. His toes moved in the dirt again, stretching down like a cat getting ready to pounce.

"I don't like you," she said.

"This one does not even know Ghi," he said with a soft titter again from between his teeth. "Ghi is guide and teacher, _ma'len._ "

"Stop calling me that," Vell said again, feeling like she had already fought and lost this particular battle. And, like before, he continued to ignore her.

"Ghilathen," he said as his arms shifted, his left moving behind his back, his right coming forward as he rested his fingers along the pommel of his curved sword. His legs shifting, changing his weight, his feet subtlely sliding into a different stance. "This means 'guide of the awakened' in your _shem_ tongue. Ghi wonders if this one truly awakened?"

"Awake to what?" Vell asked. She didn't understand. And he was talking in riddles. This was classic _Orlesian_ bullshit, except with pointy ears and no shoes. This was just as bad.

 _Elven_. Less class. Just as annoying. Just as stupid.

Ghi laughed, turning his head sharply upward and he spit his laugh into the sky, his right hand fluttering under his chin as if he were pulling the laugh out of his throat and throwing it upward. "And this is why this one is _ma'len, ma'len._ "

This time, it wasn't a punch when her hand thrust forward. This time it was a small ball of fire. Not enough to kill him, just enough to toast him a little bit and shut him up and get him to speak plainly.

His hand swooped down, snatching the ball of fire in his hand like a bird snapping prey out of the water. The flames caught, in tact, between his talon-like fingers. He just held the magic there, not being burned by it, calmly controlling it. He squeezed his fingers together, crushing the magic out of existence with a light puff of black smoke floating around his hand. "Yes, this one is much too hot."

Vell had never watched anyone catch magic like that. Deflect it, sure. Diminish it or destroy it, like Templars, of course. But never just grab it out of the air. One, no one was stupid enough to try to catch magic hurtling toward them. Two, no one was fast enough to do it even if they wanted to. And three, no one was that stupid.

"How did you do that?" she asked, a subtle note of curiosity in her voice.

Ghi tittered as he spun his hand with much fanfare, planting it back on the pommel of his sword where it had been before. "It is possible because Ghi is awake," he said. "And because this one is still sleeping, _ma'len._ Would this one like Ghi to wake her?"

Vell rubbed her sore shoulder with her hand and spit out of the side of her mouth. She didn't like the notion that she'd be stuck with this Dalish, for who knew how long. Suddenly being stuck back underground with Thelric for another three months didn't seem like such a bad option.

But the mages were still relying on. Fiona was still relying on her. And as pissed as she might have felt on the inside, she couldn't help but want to know exactly how Ghi had done that thing with his fingers just now. Vell rolled her eyes and resigned herself to her fate.

But this time, she was the one who was ignoring what he had said.

"Where are we going and what are we doing?" she asked.

Ghi tittered at that notion, lifting his hand off of his sword and stroking the thin, curving tattoo lines on his chin as he smiled outright this time.

"What does _ma'len_ know about Fen'Harel?"


	18. Chapter 18

**Eighteen**

The tower of Montsimmard was deserted, but it still felt good to be home within its walls.

Taesas reached back, pressing hand against the metal reservoir and coaxing it with a little fire, heating the water inside to near-scalding levels as it poured out of the showerhead across his scalp and down his backside. The private shower in the First Enchanter's quarters was one of its best perks and one that he could claim for himself.

Vivienne was miles away and unable to object to availing himself of the lavishly tiled bathing stall. There were no Templars to keep him from walking wherever he pleased. There were no Tranquil meandering through the hallways. Aside from Helaine, who had returned to her quarters within the middle levels of the tower, there was no one else here.

Besides, these quarters would be his when the war was over.

And after the disrespect Vivienne had shown him when she dispatched him to return here, he felt entitled to take the pleasure for himself.

Vivienne had commanded him to head north to Serault, but he had delayed substantially in Montsimmard. He had business here, whether she liked his temporary diversion or not. He could obtain better supplies in the city than anywhere else in the Empire. Indeed, he had cast his net to contacts immediately upon his return and had spent the last three days reeling in what he needed.

The layover had allowed him some devoted time to train with Commander Helaine in the privacy and quiet of the abandoned tower in order to more quickly absorb the forbidden lessons of the Knight Enchanters.

Aside from the physical and magical techniques he had expected to learn, Helaine had given him a draught laced thickly with lyrium that she said was a necessary part of the training. He had spent one tumultuous, surreal night in the Fade. All of his memory was fuzzy and indistinct from the experience. Something Helaine had given him or done to him had adversely affected him in a way he hadn't experienced since his first few times doffing lyrium.

He had brief clips of memory of her being there. But he could not place what she had done or why. But when he awoke and she began to explain the techniques of the Knight Enchanters, the specific procedures and methods to draw and focus the mana into the proper spells, he found he had developed an immediate and instinctual ability to perform to her instructions. He was quickly mastering the craft.

But most importantly, his diversion in Montsimmard was necessary for him to begin carefully poking through the undergrowth of the Game to gain what he needed to defend himself against Vivienne in the future. His current predicament reminded him of his voluntary weakness. Normally it was currency he was willing to cede to her. But this, this was a step too far.

Dalish.

A week later and he still roiled every time he thought of the path laid before him that he was being forced to walk.

He had taken some of that frustration out on Comtesse Isabel, who enjoyed the more brutal side of the carnal pleasure. He paid a late night visit to her apartments in the city center, delivering rope burns that graced her throat, wrists and ankles from the cords he bound her with prior to the furious domination he bestowed upon her. She had given some information about Vivienne discretely searching for information about a draught said to bestow youth upon the aging.

Madam d'Ancel had procured a rare tome for him from her brother, a bookbinder in Minrathous, concerning various observations and experiments on Veil tears. The book was loudly denounced through the Imperium when it came to light that its author had purposefully sundered the barrier, leading to the deaths of half of his household including his wife, although many Magisters quietly collected it. All she had wanted was for Taesas to hold her as she wept, alone in her estate, still mourning the death of her husband who had passed three years prior.

And he had spent one afternoon playing wagered chess with Commander Luc Marcelle Wimelle, discussing the Empress' position in the ongoing civil war. Vivienne's power was tied closely to Celene, so knowing the status of the Empress' forces and struggles could be valuable to the Inquisition and valuable to him if he sent it directly to them instead of routing it through the First Enchanter. Taesas lost all three games - badly, as chess was a game he struggled with despite studying it extensively - and the endeavor cost him one night with the chevalier and his new, rather limber squire Ancel. The young man had performed exceptionally well for a soldier when engaged on two fronts.

As the last of the water sputtered from the spout, Taesas grabbed a towel and began to dry himself as he stepped out of the shower, ignoring the dripping across the floor as he crossed the First Enchanter's quarters.

Vivienne's room was meticulously and carefully decorated, every piece of furniture placed in precise arrangements throughout the room to create a perfect combination of both space and closeness. The bookshelves were stocked with leather-bound titles of those useful and expected of a First Enchanter mixed with rare titles and a few more frivolous of the First Enchanter's fancy. None of them belied any openings for a player of the Game, all of the tomes carefully gardened and presented to send the proper message to anyone who might visit, or break into, her quarters.

Her closet was stuffed full, but carefully organized, neat and straightened. Formal wear, riding clothes, casual robes for the Circle, a few special occasion items. One wall was occupied by a large shelving unit displaying countless pairs of shoes, slippers, boots, heels and sandals. On the top shelf, several fashionable hats, hennins, hairnets and cowls. There was nothing unusual or outstanding about any of it.

He had prowled through her drawers, finding only mundane items. Nightwear. Hosiery. Socks. Undergarments. There was lace and silk and satin in almost all of it, but none appeared to look scandalous as it sat in neatly folded squares in the drawers. He closed each without lifting the items out and inspecting them.

There were several boxes and drawers filled with jewelry. Necklaces, dangling earrings, studs, bracelets, armlets, rings of all sizes. Gold and silver and platinum. All colors of gems. Some more rustic wood and common metal items that he had never seen her way. A few items made of shell or bone.

Her beside table had a small prayerbook and a larger book featuring the full Chant of Light, as would be expected of an devout Andrastian. An empty glass. An unburned candle in a golden candle holder. He lifted the mattress to see what she might be hiding underneath it, only to find nothing.

There was no doubt that he was not the first person to search the room and would not be the last. And, like the others, he suspected, he had found nothing of interest or use. He could make a fortune stealing her expensive jewels and clothes and pawning them, but gold was only gold and of limited worth to his purpose.

Taesas pulled himself into a robe and draped the towel across his shoulders, taking a seat at the small, round dining table on the balcony overlooking the whole of Montsimmard. Outside of the Chantry, the tower was the tallest building in the city, making the First Enchanter's small balcony one of the most majestic places.

The sun was just beginning to rise in the east and Montsimmard was just beginning to wake. He could see servants preparing rooftops for their lords' and ladies' breakfast. City guardsmen were changing. Carts were slowly creaking through alleys, making early-morning deliveries to the shops. He turned his gaze to the northwest, knowing that somewhere, far out there on the fringe of the Empire was his eventual destination of Serault.

But that was for then. For now, the sweetroll and bowl of tart, red grapes and his treatise on Veil tears were all he had before him this morning. He would seek out Helaine later for training. Perhaps today he would see if she would accompany him for a light lunch at one of the local cafes. It had been some time since he had an opportunity to dine in Montsimmard. He had spent much of the last few months on the road, so much so that his time in the city was mostly confined to the tower.

Taesas opened the book to his place, savoring the healthy crack of the new leather binding Madam d'Ancel's brother had put on it before sending it south. The pages still smelled of the humid, perfumed air of Minrathous as he slid his finger down the page to the section he had left. He plucked a grape from the bowl, turning his head as he bit into it as not to accidentally drip blood-red juice upon his page.

It was here, on this balcony, the first time he had crossed paths with Vivienne. She had come to him while he was below in the library, his face buried in a book much as he was now. She and two other Enchanters had come to him, the newly-elected First Enchanter taking a seat without inviting herself to join him in the back corner of the deep library where he spent most of his days.

Then, he had been nothing. An elf. Talented beyond his peers. Disliked by all of them for it. Introverted. Friendless. He lived his life in the library absorbing knowledge and in the training rooms practicing his craft. He did not speak much. He took his meals alone. The other mages did not want him, but it did not matter. He had thought the Circle was, in most respects, a meritocracy. If he could become the best, he could become the most of them.

He had been so naive.

"This is the one," one of the Enchanters said. She was older, slight creases around her eyes. She had a sour look upon her face and wore heavy blush upon her cheeks to distract from her wan complexion.

"You must be joking," the other said. Another human, dark-haired, a light beard wrapping around his jaw. He was much younger and bordered on handsome, depending on which way he turned his head and how the light fell across his face.

"Don't be so boorish, Jean," Vivienne said as she looked him up and down. She wore single pearls in each ear wrapped in gold. Her neck was graced with a small, wound, golden torc. She wore three rings, all on her right hand. And her skin looked as smooth as glass and soft as silk. "He does have a favorable genetic."

"How may I serve, First Enchanter?" Taesas said with a respectful bow of his head as he closed his book.

"Very well-mannered," Vivienne commented to her companions. "I am told that you are among the best of your class. And a good class too, very few losses in the Harrowing, if my memory serves me correctly."

"With respect, First Enchanter, I am not among the best," Taesas said. "I am the best."

"Arrogance," the man said.

"Not when it's true," the woman countered.

"Confidence, I name it," Vivienne said. She might have smiled, if she smiled. Instead she had crooked her head slightly, assuming a different posture. "Do you know why I'm here?"

Taesas looked back and forth between the three enchanters. He knew of Vivienne by reputation. The other two he had seen but did not know either by name. They were from much further up the tower. He was only a few years past his Harrowing and the senior enchanters did not often traipse through the lower levels.

"No, First Enchanter, I do not know your exact purpose," Taesas said. "But you are obviously in need of an elf and you do not have one."

"You speak of yourself as if you are a commodity," Vivienne said.

"I am but a resource of the Circle, First Enchanter. I am only as valuable as the use I can supply it," Taesas said.

Vivienne drummed her fingers lightly on the table.

"He's intelligent and disciplined," the woman said.

"He's a loner," the man argued.

"Exactly," the woman said, seeming to disagree that that was a negative aspect of his personality.

"What do you know about me, Taesas?" Vivienne asked, using his name. They had never met in person. But she likely knew everything she had needed to know about him before she sat at his table.

"You're First Enchanter Vivienne," Taesas said. "You were elected First Enchanter three days after Wintersend. You are among the Knight Enchanters and-"

"No, no," Vivienne interrupted. "I am not looking for a biography, darling. Even the initiates know those things. What do you _know_ about me?"

"Very little, First Enchanter," Taesas said, lowering his eyes submissively. "I do not engage in gossip."

Vivienne's lips curled. "That is too bad," she said as she placed her hands on the edge of the table to push her chair back.

"Wait," Taesas said, holding out his right hand. She stopped.

She wasn't looking for gossip. She wasn't looking for rumor. She wasn't looking for facts. The First Enchanter was looking for something more. She was looking for something beyond the mundane.

"Your election as First Enchanter was divided," he said. "The conclave took two days longer than normal, meaning that you failed to garner a majority through at least six votes. You caucus with the Loyalists but Montsimmard is majority Aequitarian. Senior Enchanter Paulus should have easily been elected with the backing of most of his fraternity."

Vivienne lifted her hands from the edge of the table and relaxed, responding to his assessment. "Go on," she said.

"You should never have been able to gain the votes you needed to ascend to First Enchanter," Taesas said. "You are a woman, and among all the First Enchanters of Montsimmard since the Circle's establishment here in Exalted Age there have only been twenty female First Enchanters of more than a hundred and fifty elected.

"You are Rivaini in blood, although it is apparent you have lived in Orlais for almost all of your life," Taesas continued. "Still, it would be another strike against your candidacy. Libertarians make up less than a fifth of the Enchanters in the tower, but you would never receive any of their votes. Loyalists make up only a quarter of the fraternity. That means you would need half of Aequitarians to support you if you were able to bring the other minor fraternities to your name."

Vivienne grinned at that notion. "Then how did I beat such monumental odds stacked against me, young Taesas?"

"You would only need to ensure that Senior Enchanter Paulus did not win on first ballot. From there, it would be a contest to sway more of the Aequitarians to you than he could hold loyal to him," Taesas said. "I can only assume it was through careful playing of the Grand Game, First Enchanter."

Now Vivienne smiled outright as she looked back to her two companions. The woman smiled too. The man scowled and shook his head.

"Would you like to play the Grand Game with me, darling?"

After he agreed, he had been escorted straightaway to her quarters and to this balcony, where the spoke in more detail, alone. Her interrogation took hours. She demanded to know the truth of every aspect about him. His past. His present. His future. She inquired after Enchanters he had never heard. She asked his opinion on Templars, Divine Justinia, Empress Celene, the state of the Empire, all of it.

He would need coaching. Training. But he could be taught to play the Game. If he played well, he would get to keep playing. If he played poorly, he would be disgraced at best. Killed, at worst. He would play on her side, in her interest. In time, he could play for himself, too, if he so desired. None of this was spoken as an offer. It all came down as demand. Taesas agreed, because, by that point, he had little other choice.

In three weeks time, he was to engage Marquis Brevere at a masquerade in Ghislain.

It was the start of a steep path upward that had taken him where he was now, sitting on the First Enchanter's balcony, reading a banned book and lazily eating grapes.

As he scanned the lines of the tome, Taesas reached down to grab his sweetroll, only to find it was not on the plate. As he lifted his eyes from the page, it was the first time he noticed the woman, the other elf, sitting quietly in the other chair, nibbling on his roll. It wasn't Helaine.

"How did you get into the tower?" Taesas asked as he closed the book, instead taking another grape from his dish.

"That book is forbidden in the Empire, Enchanter Taesas," the woman said, pointing to the tome as he tucked it underneath his chair.

"There are no Templars here to arrest me, Ambassador Briala," Taesas said.

Briala was not wearing a mask and her dark hair was tied and pinned in an elaborate bun on the back of her head. The small, dark freckles across her nose and cheeks stood out despite the darker tone of her skin. She lightly sucked the sticky glaze off of the tips of her fingers as she lounged in the other chair on the balcony.

"I'll kindly ask again, how did you get in here?" Taesas said.

The doors of the tower were sealed and locked. The doors at the base of the tower were exceptionally thick, as were needed to keep in more hot-headed apprentices with a mind for escape. Any windows that were large enough for someone to slip in or out of were so high off the ground that no one could survive a leap down or throw a rope up to climb. There were basements underneath the tower, but they were sealed at ground level, too. He doubted any of the labyrinthine tunnels ended outside of the Circle, either.

Briala popped another bit of the sweetroll into her mouth and smiled slyly. "That is a secret, Enchanter Taesas. A secret I am willing to share with you, if you are willing to share some things with me."

She came before him unmasked, a good sign of someone sincerely wishing to make a trade in the Game. Briala had once been firmly attached to the side of the Empress. But not since the burning of Halamshiral.

Still, he needed information, too, and it was a rare opportunity to get an unguarded opportunity with a treasury of information such as the Ambassador. There was civil war in Orlais and while Celene and Gaspard clashed for the crown and title, Briala had opposed them both. The Inquisition would soon be wrangling with the war and the succession crisis. Briala was playing it too, although she must have known that she stood no chance of winning. Taesas wondered why she bothered to play at all then, with her grim end so apparent.

Briala could sense his hesitation.

"I will give you a gift, then, to prove my goodwill," she said, placing the half-eaten sweetroll back down on the plate. "Madam de Fer is quite wroth that you are lingering in Montsimmard and not on the way to Serault yet. Last night, she took dinner with Inquisitor Trevelyan upon the Exalted Plains. And she was joined by a most curious guest - Knight Lieutenant Matteo Arleans and his daughter."

"What did she do to Matteo?" he asked.

"Nothing, except to speak very highly of him," Briala said dismissively. "The Inquisitor, on the other hand, was impressed with the Lieutenant and made a special note to reassign him to the forward camp in the Western Approach."

Of course Vivienne would seek to send him to the other end of the Empire to remove him from Taesas' use. The appointment could not be refused and would speak highly of his caliber as a soldier. But it would take Matteo days out of contact. He only hoped his friend had known better than to speak freely and openly in front of Vivienne.

Apparently Vivienne had also successfully managed to cozy closer to Trevelyan than she had been just months earlier. Although she had been dealt a minor bump in castrating the influence of Fiona and her malcontents outside the ruins of Ceraux, no doubt Vivienne had parlayed the experience into goodwill with the Inquisitor.

Taesas scooped up the sweetroll off the plate, turned it to the side that had not been bitten and took a small bite. "What do you want to know?" He would treat her, for a bit.

"I want to know who the Inquisition is going to back in the civil war," Briala said.

"It's not my Inquisition."

"You had been at Skyhold for three months prior to returning to Orlais."

How did she know that? "I am not privy to Inquisitor Trevelyan's mind."

"You are privy to Madam de Fer's."

"She supports Empress Celene," he said. But Briala surely already knew that. Everyone would know that. Her position as Enchanter to the Imperial Court was only as good as Celene's reign.

"And how close is she to Trevelyan?"

"You seem to know better than I."

"And how close are you to her?"

"Not nearly as close as you once were to Celene," Taesas said, taking the opportunity to turn against her. "The Grand Duke says you two were lovers."

"There are those who seek approval of petty players that do not know the Game who also that say you and Vivienne are lovers."

"Ah, but only one of those two rumors is true, Ambassador."

Briala remained stone-faced, giving no indication to whether the allegation actually was true. Taesas didn't know for sure. If it was, the Ambassador should wield it as a weapon. If not, denying it would only create more speculation that would hurt them both. Silence was the better measure.

"The elf Trevelyan keeps close to him, the mage, what clan is he from?"

She spoke of Solas, no doubt. "He is not from any clan, as I've heard."

"He is not Dalish?"

"He does not wear the _vallaslin._ "

"Tell me about the other elf."

"Sera is boorish and wild. She claims to support the commonfolk, but wastes most of her time on senseless pranks and common banditry."

"And what of you?"

"I am but a humble servant of the Circle," he said plainly with a nod.

"You will be First Enchanter here?"

"In time." She already knew. There was no use in lying. It was not a strike against him, but one against Vivienne, if Briala wished to disseminate it.

"What is it that you fear in Serault, Enchanter?"

Taesas lifted a hand to halt her. "I believe I've answered enough of your questions," Taesas said.

He placed his palms together and looked over Briala again. She was skilled, having excellent control of her voice, face and body. She chose her words carefully. Her features were slightly too angular and the freckles made her too rustic to truly walk in the lighted places of Orlais. But Celene had prized her for her commonness in that regard, an elf who could go wherever she needed without drawing much notice.

He had never played that particular role. Being from the Circle, Taesas could never play the part of the common elf skulking through kitchens and servant quarters. To be released from the tower took special permissions, so every excursion was, in itself, a small cause for pomp.

Briala, of course, had wanted to better chart the course of the Inquisition. The fallout of the civil war would determine her future and the Inquisition would be integral in deciding its outcome. But she shouldn't have known he was here. He carried enough influence in Orlais to be of note, but he doubted he was someone Briala, the Empress or anyone at the top of the Game would track on a regular basis. He doubted even Vivienne kept such close tabs on him most days.

"Vivienne sent you," he said, playing the statement as a fact, although he wasn't sure of its validity.

"Yes." He was surprised by Briala's simple, unguarded answer. "She needs my help finding some mages, mages that she made clear _you_ let slip from your fingertips."

That was hardly the way he would categorize it, but Vivienne was entitled to speak boisterously about him when he was not around. She could cast her aspersions, because she held the upper hand.

"I require aid in navigating the precarious political situation in Orlais," Briala said.

"That's a lie," Taesas called. It was certainly part of the reason, but the Ambassador would not engage with a political rival, especially not a political rival as dangerous as Vivienne without a better motive.

"It is," Briala answered with a dismissive shrug. "But simply let me say that something I need is where you are going. I believe you will succeed in your task and therefore, will allow me to get what I need. And if you do not hurry, the elf girl with the rainbow hair will beat you to your prize."

Vell.

Briala dangled the information out there as her last move, having burned all of her other questions, waiting until she had gotten everything else she wanted. If Vell was on her way to Serault, no doubt Fiona was involved, too.

"What do you need?"

"It is very simple, really," Briala said. "All you need to do is to look for a Dalish. He is violet-eyed. A mage with a green staff. Simply dressed. Bare feet. You will know him if you cross paths with him."

"And what would you have me do to this Dalish?" Taesas asked.

"Nothing," Briala said. "Only note his location. If you find him, I only ask that you report it to my agent in Serault."

"And why do you think he is in the Tirashan?"

"Because he has always wandered paths walked by few others. And he often spoke stories of Fen'Harel, stories that no normal Dalish would dare to utter," Briala said. Her eyes dipped pensive for a moment, then back up. "What I ask of you is simple. Would you deny such a small request?"

Too simple, he thought. Briala had consorted with Dalish in the past. But now, most of those she was said to be gathering were city elves. Poor, disillusioned, angry. They had been flocking to her from all over the Empire since the civil war began. But he was not aware of many, if any, Dalish clans coalescing to her.

Taesas supposed it didn't matter. Whatever endgame she was playing, it was different and disconnected from his. He only wanted to see the Circle reformed and the Chantry reformed to working order. Whether it was Celene or Gaspard on the throne would change some of the landscape of the Game, but it would not unravel the Circle. Celene had rarely butted heads with the Divine or the Chantry's upper echelon in Val Royeaux. Gaspard was a chevalier, and in time, he might press for war and attempt to drag the Circle into it. But there were many domestic matters he would need to attend to before glancing beyond the Empire's borders.

And if she could ensure that he could hand another defeat to the rebels, a temporary partnership with Briala could be advantageous. The debacle at Ceraux had been a victory for the cause, albeit lessened by Fiona's rather deft handling of the situation.

"I agree," Taesas said. "Now, back to my original question. How did you get in here?"

"Come," Briala said pushing herself up from the chair and waving for him to follow. "I will show you."

She did not go far, stopping in front of the large standing mirror placed against the wall. It was a relic, centuries old but carefully cared for. The golden frame around it had been maintained meticulously. The glass was clear and clean. Briala crossed her arms over her chest and pointed to the mirror.

Taesas looked at it, stepping closer. It was right up against the wall. He peeked behind the small space, expecting to see a secret passageway behind it. But there was nothing but the painted wall. He pressed his fingers along the stone but it did not budge. Even if she had come in that way, he would certainly have heard it, neverminding that Briala was likely not strong enough to move the large mirror without tipping it.

She smiled, muttering something under her breath and waving her hand toward the glass. As she did, the glass rippled as if it were water and he could feel a sudden, quiet burst of magic wash across the room. Where once there was glass, now the pane of the mirror looked more like colored water shimmering and holding in a single, vertical sheet.

As he looked at the liquid screen, he could see something in it, something that was not the wall behind the mirror nor the reflection of the two standing before it. It looked like a road, bathed in cool blue light and haze. Indistinct in the distance, shapes, like pillars or statues, almost. It was unclear.

"What sorcery is this?" he asked, leaning forward slightly to stare deeper into the mirror.

"It is old Elven magic," Briala said, brushing her fingertips against the fluid pane, ripples moving just like water as she touched it. And then she pushed a little further and her fingers disappeared beyond the curtain. "Eluvian. And beyond it, the highways of the ancient elves. I can take you to Serault in less than an hour, when you are ready to leave."

Taesas gulped. Part swallowing the excitement of the ancient, undiscovered magic before him. Part choking down the realization that he would be at the edge of the forest much, much faster than before. There would be no time to compartmentalize and stow away the dread that would build on the long ride north. He could be there in a blink, to face down the wood.

And yet, Vell was on her way, so Briala has said. There would be no time to delay.

It needed to be him, and only him, to reach and claim the Staff of Fen'Harel.

"Let me inform Helaine of my parting and gather a bag," Taesas said, reaching out, dipping his fingers through the liquid pane of the mirror, astounded as the magic tickled his flesh and his fingertips disappeared to another realm held beyond the portal.

Briala's hand was resting on the grip of the knife tucked at the small of her back. "You will tell no one of this," she commanded. "Not even Madam de Fer."

Briala's demand came as a threat as her fingers wrapped around the knife. He wondered if the elf was a killer now? No doubt she had dabbled in some bloody business for Celene, but there was a fine line between removing a piece in the Game and ruthlessly trying to clear the board.

No matter, Taesas thought. Let Helaine ride back south and tell Vivienne of his abrupt departure. Let her wonder how he had disappeared from Montsimmard in an instant. Let her sit confused and try to puzzle out how her spies report that he was in Serault shortly after. She would sit and wonder whether she could trust Helaine or any of her contacts.

Now, he only wondered, how could he steal such a tool from Briala?

"You have my silence, Ambassador," Taesas said as he withdrew his fingers from the liquid portal before him. "This is a secret worth keeping."


	19. Chapter 19

**Nineteen**

The warm rain ran down her bare arms as she slowly walked through her forms, her arms and hands cutting through the downpour.

The sound of rain battering through the trees around her shut out all the other sounds of the wood. The canopy of the trees did little to stop the rain. She was soaked through, the thin, dark undershirt sopping and stuck closely to her body. Rivulets of water streaked down her face, following the curves of her brow as they slipped around her eyes. Her feet pressed down into moist earth, sticky and sucking at her feet as she planted them on each forceful step and turn.

She closed her eyes, ignoring the wet and the noise, clearing her mind out.

She was not in the middle of some damned forest. There were roads all over the Empire, yet Ghi had chosen to tromp through nothing but uneven woods. She was not soaked through from a night sleeping exposed to the sky. There were inns and alehouses dotted along the highways, yet Ghi said that nature was the greatest house. She was not tired and her feet were not sore from days of walking. There were horses or drawn carts along the Orlesian roads, or halla or whatever the fuck Dalish elves rode, yet Ghi had quipped about the labor of one's legs or something stupid like that.

No, she was none of that. She was in the empty storeroom in the back of the vacant wing of the apprentice quarters, early in the morning, while the nightshift Templars were too tired to care about two apprentices sneaking around and the morning shift had not arrived yet. She was there, in that empty room in White Spire, shivering slightly in the cold morning, rubbing her hands together and her arms to try to warm up, ready to begin.

With Angelo.

He was four years older. A head and a half taller. Copper-skinned. Chocolate-eyed. Hair even darker than hers. A light, prickly shadow of stubble across his face always. A distinct, exotic, masculine smell on him all of the time.

"You ready, Vell?" His voice, a mix of flat Marcher, sharp Antivan and softer Orlesian. His smile, a beam of sunlight within a tower that only received the narrowest light from small, slitted windows.

"Always."

He would begin slowly, his hands executing punches, chops, blocks. Each step his took was deliberate and powerful with a restrained strength. A heavy, forward front stance as he bent his forward leg at the knee and shoved his weight down on it. A powerful, defensive back stance as he turned his foot at a right angle, slowly easing his weight onto the back leg. Quick, sharp, snapping turns as he rotated on his plant foot, breaking off quick, powerful kicks that made the fabric of his robe snap like a whip. He linked moves together in perfect concert, no two days ever the same, as he moved from technique to technique.

He was a sailor, before, in Anitva City with his family. He was older than most, a teenager, before the Templars found him. The took him to the tower in the Capital. His crewmates raided the tower and helped him escape. They didn't even make it back to the docks. The city guard killed three of the other boys and arrested the rest. The Templars dragged him back and transferred him to Orlais, far, far away from friends and family.

Vell would follow his actions, her technique never as crisp or strong as his. He would stop, sometimes, wrapping his hands around her to better guide her arms and legs and train her body in the proper way. She would shiver and melt when he stood behind her, his arms around both sides of her body, moving her tiny arms and legs slowly under his master's grip.

He protested in whispers that first night she had crawled into his bed in the middle of the night, sliding under his blanket and forcing her mouth upon his lips. She was too young, just a girl of fourteen years. She ignored him, grabbing him by the wrists and pinning his arms down to the mattress. She slipped her tongue in his mouth to silence his excuses. She might have been young, but she knew what she wanted. In all of White Spire, he was the only one who cared she existed in it. It did not take long before his whispered rejection turned to eager participation.

His hands ran along the sides of her body, his thumbs brushing the underside of her tiny breasts. She trembled with fear and pain as his fingers brushed her back over her robe, streaking across the scars and the wounds still trying to heal.

She hiked her robe up around her hips, reaching down between her legs to grab his cock, squeezing it between her thin fingers, shocked at how hard it was in her palm. She stroked it slowly up and down, laughing quietly as Angelo withdrew his mouth from hers, his tongue dancing in her ear as he whispered a soft moan. His groan of pleasure set her to a boil as she shifted awkwardly under the bed, pushing herself down on top of him.

Vell closed her eyes, grunting to herself as she slowly moved up and down, forcing him inside bit by bit. She had done this before, but only ever with her narrow fingers exploring herself on her bed in the depth of the night, her fingertips swirling across her spot, diving in between her folds as she bit her lips, stealing self-gratification with his name on the edge of her tongue and fantasies of his dark skin oiled and shimmering as he enveloped her.

She ignored the pain and the intense pressure stretching her as she rocked deeper onto him until her narrow, bony pelvis touched down on his and she realized he was fully within her. It was nothing like her masturbation. Instead it was aching and throbbing, her breath held close in her chest as she swallowed the pain down. In the dark of the bunkroom, she could not see his face and he, thankfully, could not see the twisted, pained expression on hers.

But Vell lay down, pressing her chest close to his, wrapping her thin arms around his neck and pushing her head into his neck as she lifted her hips, trying not to cry as his manhood pulled and scraped and tore its way out, until it felt like he was barely there any more, and then she lowered herself back down upon him.

With each stroke, he only grew harder, the painful friction lesser, her flesh looser and the pain duller. Vell did not go any faster, stealing this secret pleasure in the middle of the crowded apprentice quarters, trying to keep the bedframe from creaking and cracking as she moved upon it. By the end, she gritted her teeth in equal parts exertion, fatigue and pleasure. She jumped, almost yelped, when his hands tightened on her ass, his manhood seemed to grow even more engorged and he thrust as far as he could go, stabbing all the way into her as he exploded burst after burst deep inside of her.

It was when he withdrew that she wrapped her arms around him the tightest, pressed her cheek close to his and began to cry.

The rain was picking up, hard, pellet-like drops stinging across the flesh on her face. The damp tightness of her clothes on her body dragging and chafed her skin as she moved, her eyes stinging as the nearby flash of lightning burned through the spaces in between the boughs and trunks of the forest.

She increased her speed. Turning, stamping her foot down into the carpet of the forest floor, driving her toe into the mud. She rotated, her hip coming up and snapped off a kick high above her head. Her foot slammed into the ground as she landed. A high block. Hard step into a front stance. Punch. Block. Step. Punch. Block. Turn. Kick, step, punch. Turn, kick, step, kick, step, punch, punch, punch.

Angelo apologized for hurting her. It wasn't that.

Her feet shuffled through the mud, step after step, her hands turned into rigid knives, swinging and sweeping and cutting and killing. She left her feet, spinning, the brutal, sweeping kick ripping around as her entire body torqued and drove. She landed hard on the ground. Block, block, strike, block, punch, step, kick.

What was it then? He asked. There was no one else she could tell. No one else she could trust.

She followed the current of the Veil. The water on her skin sizzled and steamed away as she green fire flickered off of her body. The howling of the storm had been replaced by hum of the Veil.

Vell grabbed his hand, slowly sliding it under the hem of her robe.

Her punches fell along with the rising waves of the Veil, her steps following its movement left and right. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, burning in her lungs as the magic stole all the empty places in her lungs.

She pressed his fingers across the small of her back, whimpering as his fingertips stretched over the still-raw wound the Templar had given her the night before. She could feel his muscles tighten as he puzzled out what it was. She pushed his wrist lightly, forcing him to feel the uneven ridges and tears that spread across the canvas of her back.

"Is this what I think it is?" Angelo whispered. "Scars?"

Vells lips curled as a flood of agony pushed up her throat, unable to contain it, escaping her mouth as one loud, broken sob. She pushed her mouth down into his pillow to stifle the noise, a haunted, broken scream that she could hold in no longer.

Angelo pulled his hand off of her mutilated back, holding her tightly by the shoulders to him.

"Who did this? Templars!? Was it the Templars!?" his whispered had turned into a muffled shout as his entire body shook.

Vell shook her head up and down as hard as she could, her face still buried in his pillow to try to muffle her sobbing.

"Those fucking pricks!" he growled between his teeth. His hands cradled the back of Vell's head now as he pressed his lips to her ear. "Tell me who did this. I will make them _pay!"_

Vell regretted her outburst, her sobs turning from years of built up suffering to panicky, deep fear that Angelo would do as he said. She begged him to let it go. It was done. It wouldn't happen again. It was over and in the past and he shouldn't do anything and he would get hurt and she wasn't worth getting hurt for and please, please Angelo, don't say anything, I beg you, please, for me, don't say anything, it's not worth it, it's not worth it, I don't want you to, I don't, you can't, I love you, don't do anything, please, please, Angelo, don't do anything, I'm not worth it, I'm not worth it, I'm not worth it.

"I won't let them hurt you any more."

Her final punch cut the air, a tingling running up her arm as she felt the Veil trickle past her. She tried to catch her breath, wiping wetness away from the corners of her eyes. It was just rain, she told herself.

"This one is too angry and too wild," Ghi said from his seated spot under the large elm tree, the largest in the area where they had stopped.

Vell's fingers rolled into fists again. "I told you before to stop watching me," she said. He had apparently been watching her on the morning the first met at the confluence of the rivers. He had watched her the next morning, and the one after that, and the one after that. Every day she told him not to watch her. Every day, he persisted.

"Ghi does not understand what this," he swept his hands in front of him in awkward, swooping motions, "is meant to teach. If this one wants to fight, this one should learn to fight."

"I know how to fight," Vell said as she turned back toward their sleeping place, shoving her hand through her hair to push it back and off her forehead. The black roots of her hair had pushed out more than inch, the faded rainbow colors now bouncing lightly off the base of black closest to her skull.

"This one pretends to know because this one is still sleeping," Ghi said again with that idiotic, antagonizing smile. He had been less insufferable the last few days because she had convinced him not to speak to her. That reprieve appeared to be over now.

"It is interesting to Ghi, how this one commands the magic," he said, stroking his fingers over the lines of the tattoo on his chin. "But this one does not seek the company of wisest Dirthamen. This one is content to the martial folly of fated Andruil. Do you know of Andruil, _ma'len_?"

"No," she answered, blunt and cold and grim.

Little good would it do her, she knew, as she sat under the tree, scooping up the wild fruit Ghi had gathered. Vell hated to admit to herself that despite his obnoxious droning, he was an accomplished hunter and forager. She had eaten better this last week than she had many months prior.

"Fiercest Andruil of the hunt, of blood and force, mother of the _Vir Tanadahl._ Andruil is hunter of prey, consumed totally by the desire of the hunt. When fiercest Andruil had fill of hunting fowl and hare and fox and boar and halla, she sought more dangerous prey. She crossed the Abyss to hunt the Forgotten Ones, to chase them round and round the black and empty.

"And when fiercest Andruil returned to Elvhenan, she only thought of the hunt and the spoils and did not see the dark things she carried back from the Abyss with her. And the People suffered and anguished because of the foolishness of Andruil. They called out for justice, they prayed and sacrificed to mother Mythal to save them. And Mythal answered her People and their plight and made predator her prey."

Vell stared blankly at Ghi as she chewed the fruit and the cold, leftover hare meat he had roasted the knight before. The fat and grease had congealed and it was not nearly as good cold and wet as it had been spitting and hot. "So?"

"This one does not follow the _Vir Tanadahl_ and will suffer fiercest Andruil's same fate. Strength is not power without discipline, _ma'len._ "

Vell knew she would regret it, but she asked anyway. "What is the vir… vir whatever?"

Ghi smiled at her curiousity. "Yes, _ma'len,_ Dirthamen blesses children who seek knowledge. The _Vir Tanadahl,_ the way of three trees. The _Vir Assan,_ Way of the Arrow: Fly straight and do not waver. The _Vir Bor'assan,_ Way of the Bow: Bend but never break. And the _Vir Adahlen,_ Way of the Forest: Together we are stronger than the one.

"This one is astray and rigid and alone. This one is not hunter. This one is prey. But it is not too late, _ma'len._ Ghilathen is guide, if this one is willing to follow."

Vell rolled her eyes. How many times did she have to tell this elf? "I don't follow anyone," she said, spitting seeds out of the corner of her mouth in defiant disgust.

"Ghi does not see this one leading anyone. If this one is not leader, then this one must be follower, _ma'len,_ " he said with another one of his thinks-he's-clever smiles.

Vell slammed her half-eaten fruit down into the soggy ground. "For the last time, I am not your ma'len. I do not want to listen to your stories or your 'lessons' or your 'wisdom.' I do not want to be 'awakened.' I do not want to be a bow or an arrow or a fucking tree."

Ghi tittered and lightly pressed his fingers on the tattooed horns across his forehead, pressed his palms to the ground and kissed the dirt. "Ghilan'nain, Mother, you honor me with this challenge," he prayed to the earth. Then lifting his head and looking back to Vell. "Then what does this one want, _ma'len?"_

"Right now I want you to shut the fuck up," she said.

Ghi turned his head skyward and laughed a bellow laughing, his hand pulling the guffaw out of his chest as he had done before. Ghi rose to his feet, placing his bow and his quiver and his curving sword down on the ground. He took three steps out into the clearing, wiggled his toes in the mud and placed his left arm behind his back.

"Then come, _ma'len_ ," Ghi challenged. "Claim the prize that this one desires from Ghi. Show that this one is not follower and is not prey and Ghi will guide in silence to the Tirashan Forest and this one's goal."

Vell pushed herself to her feet with a smile. An invitation to sock him in the mouth _and_ get him to shut up for the rest of the trip? How could she not take that? He had gotten the upper hand on her during their initial meeting, but she hadn't be prepared for the old man and his uncharacteristic agility. This time, she was ready.

Vell took her place across from Ghi, pushing her hand back through her hair again to keep her wet bangs off her face. She brushed her finger across the six rings in her ear, her good luck charms, a reminder of her past victories. He wasn't wearing thick plate armor or carrying a sword or shield or capable of blocking her magic like a Templar. Ghi was just some cocky-ass Dalish wildling.

"Very well, _ma'len_ ," Ghi said as Vell rolled her hands into two fists. "Strike Ghi, if this one is capable."

Vell didn't wait for him to pull his arm out from behind his back or change his stance before she charged him. She led with her right hand, punching toward the center of his chest. Bigger than his head. Harder to move. Ghi smirked and tittered as she closed.

With a quick strike, Ghi's right hand snapped down, his fingers slapping at her wrist, knocking the punch aside. As Vell's arm moved, his hand just as quickly came back up, his index finger touching her cheek before his feet shuffled back a pace.

Another hook from her right hand, he smacked aside. A quick jab with her left hand, he caught on the back of his hand and checked aside. As she began to lift her left foot to kick him, he stepped forward, entangling his shin against hers and stomping down, driving her foot back into the dirt. As she stumbled off balance, he spun his right arm under hers, again bringing it up and lightly touching her cheek, smiling, and backing away.

He moved faster and better than Angelo, even, Vell thought as he shuffled back a step to keep the distance between them. Ghi was smiling still, his left arm still pinned behind his back and his right hand up, index and middle finger pressed together and up before him.

She should have expected this, maybe. Smug and arrogant, he spent his whole time lecturing and trying to humiliate her. He was trying to manipulate her, just like her teachers at White Spire tried to manipulate her into doing what the Templars and the Circle wanted. When they realized they couldn't cozy up to her, they would try to redirect her hate in the least destructive direction.

Vell grunted and spat and leaned back onto her rear foot, pulling her hands toward her back hip. She turned them, running them around the edges of the sphere in her mind, the ball of fire she envisioned. She could see the light and feel the heat as the flame began to form between her hands, bulging and swelling until the fire touched both her palms.

"No, no, _ma'len_ ," Ghi said, shaking his head as he sweeped his right hand from left to right in front of him. As he did, a blue-white, sparkling light trailed behind his hand and the ball of fire between her hands broke and sputtered away.

Vell felt it wash across her, not unlike a Templar, but different. It felt like the neutralizing magic that the teachers used during instruction, to keep untrained apprentices from losing control over their budding spells. As soon as his hand finished moving, the light was gone and the sensation was too.

"Those are not the terms this one agreed to," Ghi said as his eyes looked down dismissively at her hands where he magic once was. "This one said she knows how to fight. Magic is not fighting."

"You never said you were a mage," Vell said, keeping her distance for the moment.

"Did this one not know?" Ghi returned.

"You don't carry a staff," she said. He carried a bow, a sword, and multiple knives.

"This one does not carry a staff, either," Ghi said with another amused smile. His hand bent sharply down at the wrist and he spun it in a small circle. As he did, a ring of blue light began to trace in the clearing around them. His fingers rapidly moved once the circle was complete and she could see the markings of a glyph underfoot. She wasn't familiar with glyphs, but she was familiar with the feeling of having her magic cut off.

"Why won't you let me use my magic?" Vell demanded.

"Because this one does not need it." Those words almost sounded like another challenge. "Come, _ma'len_. Prove to Ghi that this one is not prey."

Maybe this was his lesson. Maybe he was trying to goad her into some zen teaching that the way to win a fight was to not fight at all. Maybe he taunted her to teach her to use her head before her fist. She had already heard those lessons, long ago.

She had already dismissed them for what they were - fucking stupid.

The mages had thought and talked and waited for centuries. And it got the Circle nowhere. It was only now, when they grew some balls and chose to fight that they found they could win. The Chantry had ordered them into servitude for ages and the Circle did its part to keep it that way by convincing itself that the battle could not be won.

Every battle could be won.

And so, Vell charged again.

She punched. And kicked. And Ghi turned them aside. He touched her face. She punched back harder. The Dalish slid around the ring he had painted in the dirt, the balls of his feet lightly touching the ground as he moved backward, his single hand stopping each of her strikes just short of its mark.

Vell's left hand swept in, locking against his forearm and holding his right hand at bay. She brought her right hand forward, her knuckles aimed for his exposed jaw. An opening found and exploited. As the punch closed, she could feel his arm spinning against her hers, his fingers locking around her wrist.

Before the punch could land, she was spinning and falling, her arm twisting at the shoulder as her arm locked and the momentum forced her down toward to the ground. As she stumbled down, coming off her feet out of necessity to keep her shoulder from coming undone, he released her, allowing her to catch herself on her hands before face-planting into the dirt.

"Is that all this one has, _ma'len_?" Ghi taunted. "This one is not warrior."

"Shut up," Vell said, spitting, shoving herself to her feet and flinging the mud off her fingers. The rain was coming down in a sheet again, the wall of water obscuring Ghi in a haze.

He was moving now, pacing around the ring of the circle, looking down upon her. His feet were flat upon the ground, his head pivoted on his shoulders to always keep his eyes locked on her. His left arm was still behind his back.

"This one should be pleading for Ghi to speak. This one should be listening to Ghi because this one is lost. This one is not prepared. This one is a scared, little girl." Ghi said as he turned and paced back in the other direction.

"I'm not scared," Vell growled.

Now it was Ghi who charged, back on the balls of his feet, quickly closing the distance between them. His feet chopped into the ground, quickly changing direction. As Vell watched them, trying to anticipate the kick, she felt the sting of his hand upon her cheek. As she looked up, to see his hand withdrawing from the quick snap against her face, his foot turned and struck against her thigh. His hand darted in again and Vell swept across her body, turning it aside. But as she did, he was inside of her space again, his feet tangling around the back of her ankle as he shoved, tripping her once more into the mud.

"Get up." The tone of his voice had changed. It was not mocking or teasing. It was not superior and wise. It was dark and grim. A command.

Vell got up. She punched. He dodged. He slapped her other cheek. She punched wildly with her other hand. He snatched it out of the air. Her left arm twisted. He pushed down. The pain in her shoulder buckled her knees as he slowly forced her down to the ground. She caught her body with her right hand as he pushed her closer toward the mud.

"This one is too weak," Ghi said, his voice full of disdain and disappointment now. He did not abate, his foot upon her back as he continued to force her down. Vell tried to lock her right arm, but the pressure and pain in her left shoulder was blinding. Her elbow bent and she went down to a forearm, her face just inches from the rain-soaked mud as she gritted her teeth and tried to hold.

"Is this one ready to quit?" Ghi demanded, as he pushed harder down upon her back.

"Never!" Vell grunted between her teeth, as loudly as she could scream it through the pain.

"This one is defeated," he said again, pulling back on her arm as another fiery twinge of pain burnt through her shoulder. "This one is not strong enough to be free."

Vells fingers scratched into the mud as she clenched her teeth and closed her eyes, bearing the agony. She swallowed the pain, remembering the sting of the whip upon her bare flesh, the way it cracked and tore across her back. She remembered feeling the hot blood trickle across her chilled flesh, frozen as she stood, chained and naked in the deep dungeons of White Spire.

The Templar had wanted to see her suffer. He wanted her screams, her pain, her weakness, her fair. He had stolen her dignity and her strength for years. He had beaten her until she was broken. No one would come to save her, because no one cared whether she even lived. She was invisible, lost and forgotten and nothing.

And then, that first day, Angelo noticed her. And he spoke to her. And he noticed when she was gone.

And Vell drew the line.

"I'll… never… submit," Vell whispered to herself.

A reminder of the vow she swore to herself and to Angelo in the nook in the ceiling above the bookcase in the library, their secret place that only they knew about and they shared. The place of their defiance, of their friendship, of their love, of the will and the power and the strength to resist, to fight, to never break. They would never bend. Never. To no one.

And that's why Angelo was dead.

Her face inched closer to the mud, the steady, constant strain of pressure and pain on her back forcing her down as the fury boiled within her. She could feel it. Raw. Wild. Powerful. It was still there. It had always been there.

Vell rolled her hand into a fist and closed her eyes, calling the Veil to her.

Vell twisted, screaming as she tore her shoulder out of its socket, her arm hanging limp and useless in Ghi's grip as she focused the strength down into her right arm to hold herself, letting the power of the rift flood off of her body in a wild, uncontrolled burst, a howling matched only in ferocity by the sound of her pained scream.

The pressure on her back lifted and her left arm fell, dropping and dangling to her side as she rose from the dirt, the green fire burning all around her body. She turned, her dislocated arm swinging uselessly, watching Ghi holding the milky white barrier in front of him to protect from the rift energy.

The currents of the Veil were swirling wild around her now, a spiraling tempest. She didn't just feel them. She called them, commanded them. She didn't move against it. She didn't move with it.

 _She_ moved it.

Vell punched, her knuckles striking the magic barrier Ghi held before him. The Veil came behind it, howling, flooding. The power rushed around the edges of the barrier, the boughs of the trees blown back in the wave of force. The barrier broke, overwhelmed by the power of the blow.

As the magic shattered, Ghi came through it, on the attack, his hand darting into to strike her once more. He seemed to move more slowly now, his body moving at half speed as he came toward her.

She swept her arm, the same block as before, but now with the current of the Veil behind it. As the force of the energy swirling around struck and knocked the blow aside, preventing him from grabbing her as he did before.

Vell pivoted on her right foot, bringing the kick with her left leg up, driving it hard toward his hip. Ghi brought his right arm around, pulling up another barrier to aid him as he blocked the kick at his side, pushing magic in the opposite direction to hold the strike as he pulled his left arm from behind his back.

She lowered her left foot to the ground, bracing her legs, shifting the Veil to her right hand, drawing it around her first, the energy howling as she turned, her right foot stepping forward, and brought the punch around.

Ghi quickly retreated, crossing both of his arms in an X across his body, bracing his feet in a wide stance as the blow struck, his own magic rising and bolstering him to hold the blow as her fist touched the edge of his barrier with the full force of the Veil behind it.

Vell stumbled backward as the punch struck, the collision of forces knocking her backward in a burst of green flame. Her feet slipped in the mud, agony pulsing through her shoulder as she caught her balance. Her hand instinctively came to her wounded shoulder, holding the broken appendage with a grimace as she bit back a cry of pain.

She looked up, into the haze of rain and the steam and fog that filled the space where the blow had connected.

Beyond it, Ghi still stood with his head ducked behind his crossed arms, his feet wide and bent to create a strong base. He held solid.

Before him, the were two long streaks in the mud where his feet had dragged across the ground, knocked back by the force of her blow.

His heels now sat just on the other side of the lighted, blue ring of magic he had formed around the grove. His fingers fluttered out of their fists as he slowly pulled his arms away from his body, slowly lifting his head.

He stared across the field at her for a moment, his dirt-brown eyes quizzically surveying her. She straightened his legs, standing normally, casually again. He slowly placed his left arm behind his back again and bowed at the waist.

When Ghi straightened back up, she could see the smile beginning to stretch across his face again. Somehow, impossible, but Vell could swear that Angelo used to smile just like that.

"Do you feel it, Vell?"

Ghi's quiet words echoed through the distance between them, loud and clear despite the deluge of the pouring rain.

She looked down at her hand, the wisps of green fire around her wicking away is small little wisps. The Veil retreated, like water pulling back from the shores, back to its normal state. The strength and fury that flooded her just moments before was fading, now, she could only feel the pulsing pain in her left arm.

"Yes," she said as she stared down at her hand.

She wasn't quite sure what it was, but she did feel something. It was unlike what Thelric could teach her in the forest. She had learned to feel the Veil, to notice its presence. She could follow it, go where it went. But this. This had been something entirely different.

"What… what happened?"

Ghi tittered at the question and held up two fingers, placing them softly on the lower lids of his eyes. "It's simple, Vell," he said.

"You've awakened."


	20. Chapter 20

**Twenty**

The metal points of the arrows pointed at his face glinted the sunlight sneaking through the trees.

It was mostly dark here. The canopy was thick and the ground had sloped down into a small valley, allowing the towering, ancient trees to cast long shadows down. There were no roads and no trails this deep into the wood. He had only followed this direction, the way the Marquis' silent huntsman had pointed him when they left the trails in the Deepwoods.

He hadn't needed to know the way. The Dalish would find him.

The two hunters held their bows taut. One to the left. One to the right. Taesas stood calmly in the middle of the pincer. He left his staff upon his back. He let his hands hang down at his sides. He touched the Fade with his sixth sense, ready to pull the mana for a spell, if needed.

" _An elf mage. What's he doing so far away from the city?"_

" _Do you think he's coming seeking to join us?"_

They exchanged the words in the old language, speaking quietly and quickly to each other. Taesas followed along, his eyes looking back and forth between them. Both were about his age. Both men. They looked similar. The hunter on the right had a long, scar down the right side of his head.

The _vallaslin_ they wore on their faces was strange and foreign. It looked like they wore the standard markings of the pantheon, but then they had matching, dark, black tattoos covering their faces.

The black ink wound across their left cheek, rising toward the eyes. The figure opened into large jaws, wide, teeth bared, looking to consume their right eye. The shape of the tattoos were unlike the flowing, calligraphic shapes of the pantheon. These were crude and dark. And they took the shape of the wolf.

This was the right place.

" _Not a chance,"_ the hunter on the left said. " _Look at him."_

" _You're right,"_ the other added. " _He's a shem."_

Taesas sighed. He probably should have kept his mouth shut. But he would have to speak eventually, preferably before they shot him dead without asking him who he was and why he had come.

" _I am only a shem because your Keeper discarded me as trash,"_ Taesas said to them in the elven tongue. He hadn't spoke it since he was a boy. But he had always remembered it. He knew that some day, this moment would come. That he would be face to face with his kind.

The hunters twitched, the wood of their bows creaking as they drew the bows back even farther.

" _You know our words, shem?"_

" _I do. And I am surprised that you would work together with your brother, Cython, after what he did to you as a boy."_ Taesas smiled as he lifted his hand, pointing toward the long scar along the hunter's face. The quarrelsome brother Cython and Varos had hated each other as children. Varos was the senior by two years. During one fight, he had grabbed a stone and bashed it across the side of his brother's face. The younger boy fell comatose after the blow. Many thought he would never wake. After three days, he did.

The Keeper did not exile Varos from the clan. His parents did not leave their son in the woods to die. The clan did not move on, abandoning one of their own.

" _How do you know that?"_ Varos pressed in a step closer, shoving the arrow closer to Taesas' face. His teeth were bared like an animal, still a slave to the quick anger that plagued him as a child. But his eyes spoke of fear. He had always been afraid. That's why he had always tried to be strong, to hide his weakness. " _Who are you?"_

Taesas spoke now in the common tongue. The tongue he had been forced to learn when he was taken to the Circle. The tongue of the shems, of the humans and the city elves. The tongue of his people.

"I am Taesas, son of Thresis, born of Nelavra, of the Clan Devra," he declared.

"Taesas?" Cython said, lowering his bow and letting the string go slack. He had always been the more agreeable. After getting his head split open, Cython was more timid and quiet. He always cowered in fear from his brother after that. Instead, he made friends with all the other boys and turned them against his older sibling. No one ever spoke to Varos, because they had all sided with Cython. "By Fen'Harel, I thought you were dead, brother."

He extended a hand. Taesas glanced over at Varos, who had lowered his bow but not pulled his hand from the fletching of the arrow where it nocked against the string. He looked down at Cython's extended hand.

"Brother?" Taesas said, a small laugh escaping him. "You would still call me brother? I spit on your brotherhood."

As promised, he leaned forward, spraying spit down upon Cython's hand. That brought Varos' bow back up and pointing toward his head.

"Lower your weapon," Taesas threatened, his eyes shifting back to the side as Cython withdrew his hand, wiping the spit against the side of his dull green tunic. "Or I shall break your skull as you had broken your brother's."

As Varos pulled the string on his bow, Taesas swept his hand to the side. The blast of force magic threw the hunter as if he were a leaf, his body cracking against the trunk of one of the trees. His arms and legs crumbled and he curled, groaning as the bow skittered away.

Before Cython could lift his bow, Taesas pulled his staff, whipping the end around and bringing the bladed spearpoint up under the other hunter's chin. "I wouldn't," Taesas warned. "I liked you, Cython. I wouldn't want to hurt you like your brother."

"Kill him… brother," Varos pleaded from the ground, his hands clenching at his side where he had struck the tree. Taesas hoped he had broken some of his ribs. Slow to heal. Painful. Let him suffer.

"Quiet," Taesas commanded, while leaving his eyes pasted on the blade at Cython's throat. "It's your choice. If you think you can move before I plunge this blade into your throat, please, try. And after I kill you, I will kill your brother too. Less quickly."

Cython was trembling. He was as weak and afraid as his pitiful older brother. He stood still, other than his shaking, his eyes trying to hold hard as the Dalish taught but quivering with fear.

"That's good," Taesas said, watching him fall into submission. He pulled the ice into his left hand, wrapping his fingers around the bow still in the Dalish' hand. Tendrils of ice crept along the bow, wrapping and crystallizing the weapon in ice. "You always were smarter than him."

Cython shut his eyes and cringed at the loud crack. Taesas' fingers clenched down around the frozen bow, shattering the weapon into small, icy bits. Taesas lowered his staff and motioned his head to allow Cython to run and aid his brother.

"Creators piss on you," Varos said as his brother helped him back to his feet, slinging his arm around Cython's shoulder.

"What do you want?" Cython asked, growing a little of his spine back now that he was a few paces away from Taesas. "Vengeance?"

Taesas laughed, letting the point of his staff rest against the ground. These two were even more pathetic than mewling girls caught deep in their own web of intrigue in Montsimmard, young, foolish girls trying to play the Game. They trembled and pleaded for mercy that they did not deserve because it was their own weakness and foolishness that put them upon their knees.

He could easily kill them. Maker, he even wanted to kill them.

Hearing Varos' bones crack as he struck the unmovable trunk of the trees had filled him with the same kind of exhilaration as watching a noble's influence implode in the middle of a crowded ballroom, beset on all sides by enemies and rumor and scandal they could not escape.

He felt the same power as the imbibing the flask of lyrium, letting its arcane power course through his body and carry his conscious mind deep into the Fade where he could feel it and explore it and let its magic prickle his skin.

He felt the same thrill, the same ecstatic frenzy as the thought of pressing Vivienne face-first to the wall, tearing and pushing aside her dresses and undergarments as he drove into her, his hand clasped tightly around slender, perfect neck, taking her roughly and making her scream with pleasure.

But he needed these savages.

"Take me to Keeper Ishemaya," he demanded.

"No," Varos said between his grimaces of the labored breathing as he clutched his ribs.

"Varos, we can't-"

"I said no," he repeated.

"Listen to your brother," Taesas advised.

"You're hurt, Varos," Cython said.

"It's nothing," the older brother lied, his knees buckling and wobbling as he tried to stand himself.

"We can't take you to Ishemaya," Cython blurted.

"Stop," Varos pleaded, uselessly.

"Why not?" Taesas said, taking a step closer.

Cython cowered away, just as he always had. "We split from Clan Devra," he said. His brother wanted to protest, but his jaw was gritted together in agony. "We follow Nethra now."

Nethra had been nearly the same age as him. The silver-haired girl was less than a year older. She was the fourth mage the Keeper had taken under her wing. She was the last mage the Keeper had been willing to take. He was the fifth. The odd one out.

Nethra always cried. She clung to her mother's skirts like a mouse. She could barely use her magic. She was afraid of her magic. Even when the Keeper's first, the sweet and soothing Isewyn, tried to coax her and guide her, she cried and wailed and hid.

He was more talented, even if he was younger. The fool Ishemaya had thought the girl's silver hair was some kind of sign, some kind of omen from the crafter god June. She had been born under June's stars, unique with her silver hair and her pale, grey eyes. Ishemaya was an old fool to believe such superstition.

Taesas pressed his hand to Varos' chest to a pained grunt as the man felt the pressure. He pumped the healing magic in, mending the broken bones until the older brother could stand upright and the agony on his face lightened.

"Take me to Nethra," he ordered. "I look forward to seeing her again."

* * *

The aravels had blood-red sails on them, painted crudely with the same image of the wolf that adorned the faces of Cython and Varos.

The landships were arrayed in a large circle in the wood. The land here was broken and uneven. There was a higher ridge, where several of the Dalish were sitting. There was a crack in the ground as it dipped sharply to a lower, clearer area where the rest of the clan had set up fires and broken down the aravels for camp instead of travel.

Taesas looked around. This was not a large clan. The Dalish, all who wore the same crude black wolf on their faces, all looked young. There were no elders that he could see. Likewise, there seemed to be no children.

A clan might break if it became too large to move as one. But a clan would not break and follow the fourth mage of a keeper due to size. The only other reason clans broke was due to disagreements. And judging by the faces and distrustful eyes of the Dalish he spotted around him, Taesas had a good idea of what the disagreement had been between Nethra and Ishemaya.

Varos abandoned his brother as soon as they came back within the Dalish village, still clutching his side and swearing as he wandered away. Taesas followed two steps behind Cython, making sure to glance at the faces of each of the elves. It had been decades since he was expelled from the clan and the faces of the elves were strange and unfamiliar. If he had known any of these other elves once, he did not recognize them as adults. He had only known Cython because of the telltale scar that marred the side of his face.

Judging by the condition of the aravels and the gaunt faces of the clansmen, this was a poor clan. They were not thriving here. The Tirashan was old and wicked for those who did not know its perils. And it was apparent that these elves were not wise enough to see its danger.

There were two tall torches stabbed into the earth, burning with black smoke before a small cave in the ridge of stone. Cython stopped there and pointed Taesas in without a word. He went, without thanks.

The crack in the stone was narrow, jagged walls that appeared to have been cut out by some kind of quake of collapse and not of the slow, steady erosion of water. The layers of black and grey stone were cut and ragged and the tunnel twisted before opening into a chamber.

A fire burnt in a pit in the center of the chamber. A haze of smoke that vented poorly hung around the ceiling. There six chairs set around the fire, for a council perhaps. At the back wall, there was what could only be described as a throne, a large seat of old twisted wood, draped in hide and fur. It's high back stretched and bent back toward the wall of the chamber.

Perched upon that chair was a woman, pale and frail-looking, with silver hair and light, grey eyes. Around her feet, lay three wolves that lifted their heads, ears perked as Taesas approached. The largest of the wolves, a black wolf with ragged fur that grew in patches marred by scars, quietly growled at catching sight of him.

"You have injured one of my own and yet you walk in here as if you are an invited guest," Nethra said. Her hands wrapped around the edge of the arms, as if she were holding on to the chair to keep from floating into the sky.

As Taesas got a better look at her, he could see how small she was. She might have only grown taller than a child and her arms were thin and bony. Her pale flesh stretched tightly across the sharp, angular bones of her face. Like the others, she wore a black wolf tattoo across her face. Unlike the others, she did not have the signs of standard _vallaslin_ underneath it.

"I do not wish to be here any more than you wish me to stay," Taesas said. There was no point in civility. She did not deserve it. He did not wish to give it. This was the wild and he was amidst a clan of outcast savages.

"Why have you returned?" Netha demanded, remained engulfed in the chair. But her voice was steely and cold.

"I come to claim the Staff of Fen'Harel," he said. He had never had any intention of hiding his purpose. He did not wish to play games here. There was a time for subversion and subtlety, but the finer steps of the Game would be wasted on these fools. He was no thief. Either they would hand over the prize he sought, or he would take it.

Nethra reached behind her, pulling a wooden staff from where it leaned against the high back of the throne. It appeared to be made of grey-blue ironbark. The head of the staff was crooked like a shepherd's staff and it had several cords wrapped around the place where the curved head met the pole. It clearly looked elven, but it was far less notable that Taesas might have expected for the supposed staff of a god. She rested the staff across her lap.

"It is mine," Nethra said, returning her hand to the arm of the chair. "I found the ruin. I passed its trials and survived its traps. I am the one Fen'Harel chose. I am the one tasked with gathering the People in preparation for his return. When the time is right, he will reveal his secrets to me and he will return here and take me as his queen."

At least she didn't know what she carried or what it might be capable of. If it was a relic capable of the kind of magic that had caused the Breach, he was glad that she did not know how to use it. The wolves at her feet curled back and laid their heads down, uninterested in Taesas.

"You are a fool if you think the Dread Wolf will share his power with the likes of you," Taesas said. "He is not real and he is not coming. Even if he did, what would he desire with a clan of cast off cowards?"

Netha raised her right hand, slamming it down upon the arm of the throne. The hollow thump echoed in the empty cave. " _Fen'Harel ma halam._ "

" _Fen'Harel ma ghilana din'anshiral!"_ he shouted in response and took a daring step forward toward her.

Nethra raised both her hands, slamming them down on the arms of the chair this time. The flames in the fire pit sputtered and weakened as a sudden tremor of cold filled the cave. The wolves popped to their feet, pacing around the foot of the throne as the keeper lifted from the seat, taking the staff in her hand as she seemed to float off her throne.

The wolves brushed close against her bare, pale legs, their eyes shining with golden light. Her grey eyes were blazing too, alight in the darkness of the cave. Upon her pallid white flesh, black runes and markings that had not been there before began to show.

Taesas could feel the weakness in the Veil here. The barrier separating the two worlds was barely there, a light wisp of a curtain. The chill of the beyond filled the room and he could feel the invisible, gazing eyes of demons floating around him. He had not noticed it before, but now, he could not ignore it. This was a dark, grim plaee.

"You are not welcome here," Nethra said as she moved toward him, her toes pointed down to the ground, but barely touching the floor.

Her voice echoed, speaking as two voices as one.

"How long have you held her enslaved?" Taesas asked, reaching for his staff. "Demon."

Nethra cackled at the question, her fingers curling into a claw as she pressed it to her right forearm. She dragged her nails toward her elbow, tearing back the flesh and exposing streaks of red blood.

Taesas quickly lashed out with his staff, the bladed point darting toward the possessed mage. But the demon moved faster, the staff bending, catching the shaft of his staff in the crook. With one hard jerk, Nethra yanked the staff out of his hands, sending his weapon clattering across the stone.

Her left hand reached toward him, her blood-soaked fingers curling. Taesas could feel the invisible tendrils of blood magic snaking toward him as he lifted his hands and tried to push them back. But even as he pulled the mana for the spell, he could feel the flimsy, tenuous fluctuation of the Veil. There wasn't enough strength to draw the power he needed, not without risking ripping the Veil wide open.

And the pressure bearing down on him was extreme. This was an old and ancient power, one that had been trapped and sealed for centuries, foolishly released by Nethra and her meddling.

The barrier failed and Taesas could feel the magic snaking into his bloodstream as the demon took control. He pushed, but to no avail as his knees buckled and the magic forced him down to the ground. His knees drove into the ground.

"I am no one's slave," Nethra said with that same duality in her voice. "I am the master. I am the power. I am the servant of the wolf who will devour the world."

The wolves began to circle him now, prowling, hair rigid on the back of their necks. Their heads were tucked low, teeth bared.

He could feel the air being squeezed out of his chest as the grip of the blood magic tightened around him. "You are a fool and an abomination," Taesas said. He had the gall to force himself to smile, making sure to hold his head up to look at her. "Only one of us was meant to meet the Dread Wolf, and it was me abandoned to die to feed his wickedness, not you.

"And I'm still alive, because the Dalish are weak and afraid and Fen'Harel is a lie."

Taesas lost consciousness as the force of the rod struck the side of his skull.


	21. Chapter 21

**Twenty-one**

The slashes of the sword came quickly.

He would pull up short before taking her forearms off if she missed, but Vell's arms swept and deflected the strikes with quick pushes of the Veil as she moved. It snapped and cracked in a small greenish burst every time the magic struck the edge of his blade and turned it away. She followed as his arms bounced back, taking a hard step and driving her palm toward his chest, pushing him back with as the impact of her wave drove into his chest.

"Good," Ghi said as he quickly spun the sword and sheathed it. His hands came up, quick snaps of fire flipping off of his palms.

Vell's arms spun back in toward her, covering her chest as she tracked the magic, smacking each of the plumes of fire with a quick slap of her hand wrapped in the rift magic, sending them spinning away from her body.

She could feel the tension in the Veil, tugging back at her as she pulled it this way and that. It protested at being controlled, but she grabbed it and moved it as needed. It bent to her and she could force it, if needed.

Thelric had only been the start. Moving with the Veil was the most natural. To feel it, to tap into it, was just the first step. She had learned to follows it currents, but it could only take her where it wanted to go. She could nudge it, but it did not respond.

What Ghi had shown, what he had "awakened" in her, as he said, was the will and the means to take the reins when she needed them.

How he knew these things, though, were a mystery he would not reveal to her.

Ghi placed his arms behind his back and bowed his head. "That's good," he said. "You're getting better. Do you feel it?"

Ever since that first day, Ghi had gone from insufferable to tolerable. His speech had changed. He no longer pontificated. His overall demeanor was more relaxed. He didn't speak of the Dalish unless asked. In fact, he didn't speak much at all now except when she spoke first. It was as if he were an entirely different person.

When she had asked him about that, he had only smiled and tittered and said now she was a peer.

He didn't call her _ma'len_ any more. And he didn't refer to her as "this one." For what Vell could tell, both were a sign of his growing respect for her. And all it had taken was her ripping her shoulder away from her body and trying to kill him. He had been kind enough to pop her arm back into place and thankfully knew healing spells capable of mending the tissue.

"It's still fighting me," Vell said, shaking out her hands and throwing the Veil away from her. She felt a sudden rush, like exhaling deeply as the magic fled from her body. It felt almost as if it scurried away in fear, before melting back into its endless expanses and finding its natural flow again.

"It will grow easier in time," Ghi said. "You are learning to play harp and it will take time before you know how to pull its strings the right way, when to use restraint and when to pluck hard. It will become more natural, with practice."

The sun was up now, the morning dew beginning to fade on the blades of grass. The twisted, gnarled trees, the sucking mud and the stinking, rotting damp of the Nahashin Marshes were now behind them. They had emerged from the swamps the night before and Vell would be happy to be rid of them.

Normally the journey to Serault was a long and drawn out affair. Either one needed to trek through the barren and dangerous wastes of the Western Approach in order to follow unprotected trails to the north, or take the safer and equally circuitous trip around the Imperial Highway to Churneau and then head west. The marshes separated Serault from the Heartlands and there were no roads through it. But Ghi had proven an invaluable guide, knowing of a safe route through the swamps. A few steps in the wrong direction and a person could be lost forever. Or worse, fall into a lagoon of sucking mud or fall prey to wyverns, bugs, snakes, spiders or other beasts lurking in the rotting woods and tepid water.

Going through the marshes had shaved days off the travel. There were some small villages in the wide expanse of grassland between the swamps and Serault, but they could be easily avoided. A few roving Dalish clans also moved across the plain, Ghi said, clans that had more even-tempered demeanor toward Orlesians, trade and interaction.

Those weren't the kind of clans Ghi said they would ultimately meet in the Tirashan. The clans of the ancient forest were old, insulated and strange. Centuries of isolation in the wood had led them astray from the more mainstream clans, he said. That, and the forest itself was considered haunted. The Veil was weak and apostates, spirits and demons were part of its dark reputation.

Ghi pulled the canister of grains from his pack and spilled a little into each of the two, small wooden bowls. He pulled the stopper from his waterskin and poured some in, holding his hands over each of the bowls to heat it and dipped the small spoons in. He passed one to Vell.

"Eat," he said. "It is thick, but it will keep you filled. Now that we are out of the marsh, we can strike a quicker pace across flat land."

Vell took the bowl and was getting ready to sit, but Ghi was already re-packing his bag. He waved to her to follow as he dipped his spoon into the bowl and brought it to his mouth while walking. She dug her own spoon in, scowling as the white porridge came up in a thick, sticky clump. But as she slipped it into her mouth, an unexpected nutty and sweet honey flavor washed across her tongue. She held it there, letting her spit soften it up to a point she could swallow.

There were animals bounding through the tall grass ahead of them and birds overhead. The small birds flitted through the air, sweeping and setting down, lost amidst the tall blades. The sky was clear and blue overhead, although thicker grey clouds could be seen off in the distance. Vell pointed up with her spoon as she gulped and swallowed hard to force the porridge down. "Rain?"

"Yes," Ghi said. "Before day's end. Unless it is Elgar'nan's will to stay with us unto night."

The sun god, as Ghi later explained, did not shine upon them.

By mid-afternoon, the grey clouds had overtaken them and light rain had begun to fall. There was no shelter upon the plains and once again, Vell was soaked through as she walked. The rain was warm, there was no wind, and it fell lightly. But still, the grass was slick and wet and her clothes were sopping again. She ran a hand back through her hair, shaking her head and throwing beads of water off.

The misery of travel settled over her once again, but Ghi seemed to remain as upright and unphased as ever. The elf had a cloak of animal hide that he had thrown around himself when the rain began to fall. She didn't know what it was, but the water wicked off the oily skin. He was wet, sure, but he did not seem miserable. However, this was his life and the wild was his home.

"How are you faring?" he asked, turning his shoulder and grinning as Vell pushed her unruly wet hair off her forehead again. He still retained some of his snark.

She didn't bother to answer. The blank, displeased look on her face should have been enough. And it was. Not only was it wet, but the terrain had changed to hills, making walking up them a strain on her legs and down them a slow and treacherous descent in the wet.

"So sour," Ghi said with a titter. "There is a place, not far from here. The rock has split and opened into a shallow cavern. It is out of the weather. And within there is a warm spring, where you can relax and regain your strength."

"Regain _my_ strength?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Ghi could be moving twice as fast, if you were not slowing him down," he said with another smile.

* * *

The white steam rising from the pile of wet kindling quickly changed to grey and black smoke as Ghi forced his magic down to make it burn.

The mouth of the cave was narrow and well-hidden. Ghi must have been here before, otherwise there was no way he would have known about the small crack on the backside of the hill. Even if they had been coming in the other direction, Vell was pretty sure she wouldn't have noticed it.

The narrow tunnel wound slight downward into the hill and, as promised, there was a small, self-contained spring near the back of the cave. The water was steaming and slightly cloudy from whatever was being forced up with it from underground. The air around it smelled slightly metallic.

And the water was blue. Unnaturally blue. And it glowed with a dim light.

"Lyrium?" she asked as she bent down and dipped her fingertips into the pool. The water was slightly warmer than tepid, but not as hot as the scalding communal showers she was forced into from time to time in the Circle. She wondered if this was ideal bathing temperature, the kind of heat that someone privileged enough to have a private bath might get.

"Yes. Somewhere far underground. There is a little bit of it in the water. Diluted enough to be safe. Just the right amount to rejuvenate a tired mage," Ghi said with an added titter to make it clear that he was once again teasing her.

Vell ignored him and stood, crossing her arms. She wasn't planning to hop in while he was still around. She wouldn't be disrobing, not with him around. Because he would somehow see her back and he would ask about it and she didn't want to have to explain it for him. He would probably try to turn it into some kind of damned lesson about… something. Something Dalish, probably. Something about Androozle and hunting with Falladin or whatever the hell their names were. June. June was one of the gods he had been blabbing about. Nice and easy to say.

Ghi took the message. "Ghi will go to hunt so that we might be eating well tonight. Do not be falling asleep in there."

"I'm _not_ tired," she shot back at him.

Ghi was tittering and shrugged his shoulders as he threw his bow and his quiver of arrows under his cloak and slipped back out into the rain. Vell exhaled, letting her entire body slouch now that he was gone.

In truth, she _was_ exhausted.

The pace he had set through the marsh had been brutal enough with its uneven and sticky terrain. Once back on flat, solid land he had wanted to go even faster. Up until a few months ago, she had spent all of her time trapped within the corridors of White Spire. The Circle had some long hallways and stairs, but she had never been put to traversing dozens of miles day after day. The leisurely march from Skyhold to Ceraux had been much more to her liking.

Vell slipped back down the corridor, sticking her head out of the entrance and looking for Ghi. The rain had picked up slightly and the sun was going down. But she didn't see the Dalish man anywhere. Wherever he went, she was reassured that he was gone.

As she went back down the length of the cave, she began peeling out of her wet clothes, balling them up into wads and tossing them near the fire in hopes that they might dry a little. Her jacket might dry the quickly. She kicked off her boots and turned them so the openings faced the flames. The thicker fabric of the pants she slipped out of would probably still be wet for days. Her thin socks might dry the quickest being the smallest. She dropped her undergarments and placed them under her pants just in case Ghi came creeping around.

Last of all she removed her shirt, quickly pulling the soaked tunic off of her and making sure to turn her back toward the back of the cave. If Ghi came back, she cared less if he saw the front of her than the back. Last of all, she pulled the small, thin bandeau that covered her chest over her head and tossed it down. She gave one more long look toward the mouth of the cave to make sure he wasn't there, then quickly turned and scampered toward the spring.

Vell slipped down into the warm water, putting her back toward the cave wall once more as she settled down into the water. She could feel a tingle as her cold and wet flesh touched the spring. Whether it was the slight mineral roughness of the water or the lyrium in it, she didn't know. She didn't care, either, letting out a groan as she sunk her tired muscles.

The spring wasn't very deep, shallow enough that she could sit down upon the bottom with her head just above the surface. Vell tipped her head back, letting it rest against the stone lip of the pool.

It would still be a couple days before they arrived in the forest to look for this so-called Staff of Fen-Harel that Fiona wanted her to get. It sounded like made-up elven bullshit to Vell when Ghi first told her about it. But he sincerely spoke that yes, Fen'Harel was real, yes, Fen'Harel's staff had been sealed away for literal ages of the world, and yes, it had been uncovered and he knew where it was now.

Vell didn't like that Fiona hadn't been clear about why she wanted it. She wasn't Dalish. The Inquisitor wasn't Dalish. No one that she knew was Dalish. And a staff was a staff after all. It was only a tool for a mage to use. Fen'Harel's staff wouldn't be any different from Fiona's staff or her junk staff, right? They all worked the same in the end. The lack of information made her suspicious that she was being played.

But of course she was being played. Vell had to remind herself that Fiona was _Orlesian_ and all _Orlesians_ did were play games. The game was supposed to be about making sure the mage's didn't have to go back to the Maker-damned Circle. She didn't see exactly how some chunk of Dalish wood fit into that.

Vell ran her hands down her legs, the slight abrasiveness of the water scrubbing what felt like months of filth that had accumulated on her in the underground lair with Thelric. She ran a hand down each of her arms, around her neck, across her chest. Her touch all felt more sensitive under the water.

Vell tipped her head back again and closed her eyes and she slipped her hand between her legs.

She summoned the image of Angelo in her mind. It had been ten years since the last time she got to look at his face, but she had forced herself to commit every detail of him to her permanent memory.

She promised him that she would never forget him.

She remembered the slight curl of his ebony hair that hung shaggily around his head. She remembered his stark eyebrows and the way they bent above his chocolate eyes. She used to stare into them, admiring the fleck of black in his dark irises as she held her forehead to his. She remembered the shape of his lips, the feeling of his lower lip as she held it between her teeth and tugged it.

She remembered the shape of his shoulders, the contours of his chest and the tautness in the muscles of his arms as he braced himself against the wall or table or the bedframe as he took her. She remembered the feeling of his hip bones, pressed against her body as he gasped for breath, buried to the root inside of her after his climax. She remembered the feeling of his ass in her hand as she gripped the tense muscles, holding him down so that he couldn't pull out of her.

She remembered the copper tone of his skin, the taste of his sweat and the exotic Antivan musk that clung to his naked body. She remembered his warmth and spice as he kissed her, and the tickle of his breath on her bare flesh as he explored her body with his mouth.

She remembered the feeling of his hands on her hips holding her still. She remembered the flicker of his tongue up and down her clit, its pointed tip slipping between her lips as he explored her sex. She remembered the feeling of his fingers inside of her, sliding slowly in and out and brushing her spots in just the right speed and pressure to make her moan.

Vell remembered the shock running through her body, the heat and pulsing, the tension, the clenching, the waves of pleasure that pulsed from her groin all through her body as he brought her to orgasm, choking on her own tongue so that she did not scream and alert the Templars, but wanting to cry out and tell him all the things he did to her and made her feel.

Vell's legs squeezed together, crushing her right hand and stopping her fingers still as she shook in the hot spring, that same electric orgasm vibrating through her now. She bent slightly at the waist, her head coming off the ledge, a moan choked back behind her pursed lips as she slowly pressed a single finger against her spot, each slow, small rotation sending another wave of beautiful agony through her body. She shuddered and grunted with each pulse, until the sensation became too much to bear and she yanked her hand away.

She panted and swallowed, trying to catch her breath. She opened her eyes. The cave was still empty. She shut them again. She slowly stretched out her legs to release the tension in her muscles from holding her entire body rigid. She cupped a bit of the water in her hands and scrubbed it against her face, exhaling again slowly.

As always after the release of orgasm, her mind felt unclouded and sharp. It was a brief window of clarity, when she could think about anything intelligently. It was a few minutes of thought that would not go to waste on the petty things that occupied her head daily.

And this time, Angelo was still in her mind.

Vell's knees bent in toward her body and she wrapped her arms around her legs. Her shoulders scrunched inward as she placed her chin on top of her knees. Her pleasure had momentarily chased the fog away. But what was left behind was what was always stuck there, clinging inside of her.

Ghi had said he would be gone and he wouldn't come back inside until she called for him. For one of the few moments in her life, there was no one else around. She was rarely in private, surrounded by other mages or lately, soldiers and camp followers. And that realization only made it harder for Vell to forget that she was always alone.

She pushed her forehead onto her wet knees, took another slow breath, and let out of the quiet sobs she kept locked inside of herself.

Vell sat pushing the brown gruel around her plate, her will bent on keeping her fingers from trembling around the fork in her hand. The fabric of her robe felt like scratchy fire as it shifted against the raw flesh of her back. It had been less than a day since she returned from the depths of White Spire's dungeons. It had been months since the last time he snatched her from her bed in the middle of the night and dragged her down to the familiar cell in the underground dark.

Maybe he thought that a little time to forget the sting of the lash would break her resolve. Maybe he had thought that as the whip tore her back, that she would scream and apologize and plead for him to just be done with his business. Instead he had been the one screaming, foaming with rage like a wild beast as he mercilessly lashed her, demanding for her to cry out.

Her mouth was smeared with blood like sloppy cosmetic from where her teeth pierced her bottom lip as she forced herself to keep her mouth shut and hold back the urge to cry out in pain. By the end of it, she didn't have the strength to stand, hanging from the shackles on the wall, the iron manacles chafing and cutting her wrists bloody. Her entire body was shaking, a swaying, swinging mess smearing across the floor in the carpet of blood that ran down her back and dripped under her powerless legs.

The Templar swore and finally gave up. He stuffed his pathetic, flaccid cock back into his pants, took his vials of blood and his lash and slammed the heavy cell door behind him. Perhaps he expected her to just die before morning. When he came the next day, he grudgingly poured the ladle of water down her throat, jammed a half-eaten knot of bread into her still-shackled hands, and haphazardly threw the stinging, burning potion across her raw and mangled back.

On the second day, he gave her water but no food. He roughly slathered greasy poultice along her wounds and stuck bandages to them as if he were roughly patching broken plaster in the wall.

He whispered his threats into her ears as he worked. He always promised not to kill her. It was always something worse. Days of slow, painful, torture. He would take her fingers away, one knuckle at a time. He would slowly peel away her flesh, bit by bit with his knife. He would fill her veins with poison, taking her to a level of excruciating agony just short of death. If she ever said anything or tried to run and hide, he would know. No one would believe her. He dared her, dared her to see if she could keep from screaming during that.

On the third day, he tore away the bandages, forced her to dress, and led her back up into the apprentice quarters to return to her bunk as if nothing was amiss.

"Where have you been?" Angelo said as he forked the mushy gruel into his mouth at breakfast. "I missed you."

"I… I…"

"It was the Templars, wasn't it?" Angelo said, his voice low. Ever since the night she forced him to feel her scarred back, he had never asked to see it. He had never asked again to touch it. But he always stared at every Templar they passed, trying to puzzle out who was responsible.

"No," Vell lied. "I got in trouble with Enchanter Maevis again."

He didn't believe her, as he shouldn't. His hand slowly wrapped around her wrist and he gave a light squeeze. She dropped the fork onto the table. Vell couldn't stop her fingers from trembling, couldn't stop him from seeing it.

"Who did it?" he asked, that hint of Antivan hotness in his breath. He demanded it, but gently.

"It wasn't like that, Angelo, I swear," she said, yanking her arm out of his hand.

"Don't lie. Not to me, Vell," he pleaded. "They can't do this to you. They can't get away with it."

Her eyes wandered, settling on him, the Templar, standing on the side of the mess hall watching the apprentices. Her gaze lingered, a moment too long, and Angelo followed her eyes.

"Him? Is it _him?"_ he asked, his fingers rolling into a fist on the table.

"Angelo, don't. Please," she begged.

He was already rising from the bench before she could try to grab him. "I'm just going to talk to him."

She watched as he marched across the mess hall. His hand raised in greeting to the Templar. They exchanged a few brief words. Angelo leaned in close, speaking quietly. The Templar looked left and then right. He said something back. Angelo nodded. The Templar motioned toward the hallway. Angelo nodded again. The Templar took a step in front of him.

Angelo grabbed the back of his head and slammed it into the stone wall.

Vell screamed first, her hands pasted over her mouth in horror as the bloom of red blood sprayed across the wall. The mess hall erupted in shouts. Other apprentices screamed. Some sat frozen, watching. Others ran, sprinting back toward their bunks to avoid the inevitable wrath of the Templars.

Angelo was screaming something as he slammed the Templar's face into the wall a second time. She couldn't hear it, couldn't tell what it was over the din of the mess hall gone crazy. The Templar's arms and legs went limp after the second strike and he crumbled to the ground. Angelo went with him, his arm pulling back and smashing the Templar's head down a third and fourth time into the floor.

The first Templar hit him across the back of the head with a bludgeon. He turned and threw fire at him. Another tackled him to the ground. Heavy boots and mailed fists pounded him down into the ground. They shackled his hands and pulled him to his feet. His face was a bloody mess where he had been beaten. He was still struggling and shouting as they dragged him away.

"You can't do this! You can't treat us like this! We're not animals! Vell! Vell! You have to show them! You have to tell them!"

The tears were pouring down her face and she was shrieking into her hands clasped tightly over her mouth when the Templars grabbed her and dragged her away too.

She could never forget the feeling of the strong, mailed fingers clenching down on her shoulder, ordering her to rise from the bench.

She could feel them. She could feel them now. The air was chilled with ice.

Vell opened her eyes, the snakelike fingers draped across her shoulder and the hiss in her ear. She jumped back, smacking the shadowy tendrils off of her shoulder like a spider. The water of the hot spring splashed as she pushed to the other side of the pool as the shade stretched toward her, its black fingers outstretched toward her face, the glowing, dead, empty blue eyes boring into her skull.

She raised her hands in front of her, turning her head to the side and sprayed fire into the cave. The shade shrieked as the tongues of the flame shredded it, its arms and tenuous body flailing blackness in the light and heat of the magic fire. The demon shriveled, evaporating into blackened smoke as Vell's fire licked around the walls and ceiling of the cave.

Vell panted, placing her hand over her heart to feel it thumping out of her chest.

"Fuck," she said to herself. "That was… fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck."

She bounced out of the spring, walking as quickly as she could, dripping heavily on the floor of the cave. She grabbed her still-wet clothes, slipping the bandeau back over her breasts, forcing her arms into the sticky, dripping shirt. She stepped quickly into her undergarments and pants and stomped into her boots without bothering to put her socks back on. Vell hoisted her pack by the strap and swung it onto her shoulder as she marched out of the cave.

She stood outside the crevice. The sun was down and the land was dark. It was still raining. She stood outside the entryway, shivering from the chill of the nighttime rain as it poured down over her and trembling from the fear of the close encounter. Maybe it was the lyrium. Maybe it was some weakness in the Veil. Maybe it was the vivid memory in her mind that called it toward her.

It didn't matter. She didn't care. It had been too fucking close.

Ghi eventually emerged from the darkness, carrying two hares by their ears and leading a white halla with small, young antlers twisting off of its head. She stomped through the wet grass toward him when she saw him, leaving the mouth of the cave behind.

"We're not staying here," she declared and kept going past him.

"We should eat," Ghi suggested, speaking louder as she kept walking away from him, walking away from the cave.

"No!" Vell shouted over the sound of the rain. "We're not staying here!"

"We can go, if you wish!" Ghi shouted. "But you are going in the wrong way!"

Vell turned her head. Ghi was dozens of yards behind her already and had not moved. The Dalish was pointing to his right.

"Fuck," Vell said to herself.

She turned, heading in direction of Ghi's finger, leaving her feelings behind her once more.


	22. Chapter 22

**Twenty-two**

Taesas curled his fingers behind his back, trying to focus through the fog that clouded his mind.

The pain still radiated through the side of his head, days after he had been overwhelmed by the demon. When he moved his jaw, he could feel the dried blood caked in his hair stretch and crack. The cuts and scrapes across the left side of his face also suggested that after he had been knocked out, they had unceremoniously dragged him through the dirt to his cell.

His cell, as it was, was little more than a deep pit. Deep and sheer enough for him to be unable to climb out. Dirty and damp. It reeked of shit and blood. Judging by clumps of dried and broken feces and rotting plant material, he guessed this had been some kind of animal pit. The scattered bones and bits of rancid flesh in places hinted that one or more Nethra's wolves had once been kept down here as she broke them and bent them to her will.

His robes were covered in mud, but he was two days past being able to care about his hygiene and appearance. This was his fourth day in the hole, if his count was correct. And his situation hadn't improved. The same as when he woke from his daze, his hands were bound tightly into his back and he could not summon his magic.

Taesas determined that his food had been tainted with some substance. After eating the sparse rations they threw down to him on the first day - his face pressed down into the dirt and forced to eat like an animal - he had spent the rest of the night in a stupor, his head spinning, his vision blurry and the walls of his cell appearing to melt and slide up and down.

On day two, he left the food where it fell. On day three, he again left it, though the rumbling and pain in his stomach was growing more severe. But even then, between his weakness and the lingering effects of whatever they had given him, he could not seem to make a connection to the Fade to draw power to aid him in an escape.

On today, the fourth day, he had given in to hunger, justifying to himself that his pride had little value if he was dead. No doubt Nethra was waiting for him to break, like she could do to a beast.

She would be waiting until the Dread Wolf returned to rip out her throat.

He had been forced to suck the small puddles of filthy water from the mud as the groundwater seeped up through the dirt. On the third day, it had rained, and his used his feet to push down a few depressions in the mud so they could fill with rainwater.

Thankfully he had been able to slowly figure out the method to hike up his robes with his legs and hold them bunched in his bound hands enough so he was not forced to soil his own clothing with his waste. He might be slathered in mud, but he would not be brought before Nethra again reeking of his own piss and shit.

His hands had fumbled over his shackles, using the information of his touch to try to paint a picture in his mind of their design. They were metal. A single forged piece with a hinge on the left side secured with a pin on the right side and secured with a small lock. He had tried to gather a few of the small bones in the pit in an attempt to pick the lock, but he could not easily maneuver either hand to make an attempt. Even so, he knew nothing of lockpicking and gnawed bone was not a key.

He had resigned himself to the fact that, for now, he was a prisoner. Taesas very much doubted that Nethra - or at least, the demon that controlled her - would be satisfied to simple let him rot and die of hunger or thirst. This was a cult and she, its leader. In time, she would want to make a show of her power and influence and dominance. In time, there would be opportunities.

So Taesas sat, his legs crossed underneath him, his shoulders sore from his arms being pinned behind his back, and closed his eyes, attempting to clear his mind. While his magic was honed and fierce, his mind had always been his best weapon. This was a different type of game. Although foreign and with high stakes, it could be mapped, processed and won.

How Vivienne would laugh to see him brought so low by a band of woodland savages.

Her wrist wound bend, her fingers lightly touching her collarbone and she chuckled softly and sweetly, but unable to contain herself until she allowed her chest to shake with genuine laughter. Her fingers would cover her mouth to hide her smile and she would say something like, " _Darling, you look absolutely dreadful."_ He was sure of that.

He was also sure that no one would be coming for him. If she didn't hear from him, she would assume that he had failed and she would never speak of it again. If someone inquired after him, she would lie and make excuses that she was not his keeper. If the details of his mission came to light, no doubt someone like Inquisitor Trevelyan would offer to stage a rescue attempt. But Vivienne would dismiss the thought. She would downplay it by calling it something like a "fool's errand" and suggest that it was not worth wasting the Inquisition's resources chasing wild tales of the Dalish peoples.

If he was to escape, he would have to do it himself.

Taesas pressed aside the notion that he was in this position partly due to his own actions. Maybe the situation would have played out differently if he had not so arrogantly marched into their village and so strongly challenged Nethra. It should not have been an issue. He would have wrenched the staff from her fingers - whether they were warm and pliant or cold and rigid would have been up to her - and left. If the Dalish meant to stop him, he would let them decide for themselves how badly they wanted to meet their Creators.

There was no reasonable way he could have predicted that the fool had been taken by an ancient demon. Blood magic would not have even been a problem to deal with, if Nethra dabbled in it, but not the kind of power of the blood the demon practiced. It was far and beyond him to counter, not without more preparation than he had in the moment it was set upon him. It was a complicating factor in his calculations, calculations that were slowed and stalled by the fog in his brain making it difficult to concentrate.

In order to have any success, he needed to be loose of his shackles and be out of this hole. That was the constant across the variables. Here, weakened, and bound, there was little he could do. If he could free himself from this pit, the Dalish would no doubt be watching his every breath. But he could find the right moment and the right way to strike.

He could hear sound of footsteps on leaves and dirt, of quiet talk approaching his pit. He had only been fed once per day and they had already thrown his food to him earlier today. The noise boded well, as Taesas took a deep breath to prepare himself.

"Keeper Nethra has summoned you. Shem," the Dalish man spoke with ire.

Taesas opened his eyes, watching them pound the stakes into the ground and attaching the small rope ladder down. There were three of them. The man working the ladder, two archers and two of Nethra's three wolves. They circled around the rim of his pit.

"Let me just shoot him and be done with it," one of the archers, a blonde-haired woman said.

"Nethra commanded that he not be injured," the other archer said.

"Why not? Look at him, sitting there. He's an animal. I can put an arrow right through the bridge of his nose. Have you ever done that one before, Maethor? Makes this beautiful cracking sound," she said.

The other archer, the one she called Maethor, just shook his head. "He doesn't look scared," he said, pointing down at Taesas.

The archer quickly pulled her arrow, drawing her bow back and aiming it down into the pit. Taesas looked up at her face. She squinted a single eye as she peered down the length of the arrow. "Come on, shem," she said. "Beg for your life."

Taesas instead, dropped his gaze down, uninterested. Maethor laughed. "Nethra said he he was bold."

The woman eased the tension out of her bow and stuck the arrow back into her quiver. "Keeper will break that out of him."

"Mythal give me mercy," the other man said to himself as he lowered the ladder down into the pit. "Will you two bond already and be done with all this bickering? Everyone is tired of you two."

"Tell her," Maethor said.

"I want a _man,_ " she responded.

"I'm more than enough for you to handle," he responded.

"Enough, or I'll put an arrow in both of you," the third man said as he touched down into the pit. He motioned with his hand. "Get up, shem. Keeper wants you."

Taesas uncrossed his legs, pushing off his left foot and his right knee to bring himself to his feet. He stood as straight and with as much dignity as he could, despite his condition. These fools didn't deserve the satisfaction. He could play a different game with Nethra's demon. These rabble though, never.

"Hit him for me," the woman said. "I don't like his smug shem demeanor."

"Keeper said unharmed," Maethor reminded again.

The third Dalish went around Taesas' back and began fiddling with the shackles until they popped out. Once free, Taesas rolled his wrists to get some of the feeling back in them and moved his shoulders to begin breaking up the stiffness from days of being held behind him.

"Hands in front," the elf said, presenting the jaws of the shackles before him.

Taesas shrugged his shoulders, stiffness and pain in them, and brought his hand up to his face to wipe some of the residual mud and filth from his lips and cheeks. He ran a hand back through his hair, pushing it behind his ears and scratching out a bit more of the dried blood behind his left temple before placing his wrists back into the cups of the manacles.

For the first time, Taesas could see that the topside of the cuffs. The black iron was flecked with bits of blue and white. No doubt they had dosed his food as well, but the inlaid lyrium in the cuffs certainly played a part in stifling his magic.

The Dalish man clamped them down, slid the pin back in to seal it and locked them once more.

Taesas might have been able to fight his way past the man in the pit. But without being sure whether or not he would have his spells, he would only be shot down by one of the two archers. They had the high ground. It would take him several seconds to scale the ladder and escape the pit, all time in which they could plant arrows up his spine. Fighting, at the moment, was not an option.

There would be opportunities later, he hoped. His summons with Nethra would help narrow the variables of his situation. He could quickly reassess and plot his best course of action. At the least, having his hands shackled in front of him, with limited mobility, was a vast improvement in condition from just moments earlier. If he could break the cloud keeping him from his mana, he could fight and he could kill every one of these Dalish, even with his hands bound.

Taesas wiggled his fingers again to keep the feeling in them as he grabbed the first rung of the ladder and began to ascend out of the pit. Once out of the hole, he waited for the man behind him to climb out. He led, with Taesas behind him and the two archers following a few paces back. The black wolves bounded past the group, quickly darting back toward Nethra's cave and disappearing into the crevice.

It was early afternoon, he judged by the amount of sunlight in the camp. There were fewer people around than there had been during his first arrival. Likely they were out hunting and gathering or on patrol for other clans or humans carelessly wandering in the forest. If he could get the staff, it would be an ideal time to escape with so many away from the village.

The two archers stopped at the entrance and the other led him inside. Much like the day before, a fire was burning in the center of the cave. Nethra was engulfed in the throne on the back wall. Taesas glanced around, looking for the staff. It was not on her lap and he did not see it nearby. She must have moved it. The three wolves were curled around the fire sleeping.

The only difference between this day and the last time was that there was a white halla that was chained to a post in the wall. He noted it, the memory of his childhood coming back to him. The Dalish did not domesticate the halla. All true halla were wild and they served the Dalish willingly. While beasts and often utilized as beasts of burden, they were intelligent creatures. They did not serve those they did not respect or trust.

"I've brought the prisoner, as you've asked, Keeper," the man said.

"I hope the time in the pit wasn't too strenuous on you, Taesas," Nethra said, sitting up and bending at the edge of the seat. She rested her elbows on her thighs. Her voice was higher, sweeter. She looked even paler than before, although her brow was wet with sweat and her cheeks were flush.

Something had changed, although Taesas figured that was to be expected. She was sharing her mind and body with another entity. Perhaps it was not fully in control of her?

"I've endured worse," he said with a coy smile and a slight, polite dip of his head.

Taesas had spent two weeks in the dungeon in Ghislain many years ago, during his first foray from the Circle in service to Vivienne. At the Duke's masquerade, he had done as he was ordered. He staked out Marquis Brevere and waited for the lord to step outside for some fresh air onto one of the estate's balconies.

He introduced himself. He delighted the Marquis with some simple magic. He answered all of Brevere's questions about the Circle honestly. And then he spoke as he was ordered about Vivienne and her plans for Montsimmard. The marquis had listened closely, sipping wine and eyeing Taesas up and down.

When he had finished his task, Brevere had swirled his glass of wine. "Very good. Very good, indeed," he said. "Vivienne sent you, then?"

She had been clear to make sure that he did not explicitly know that Taesas was there at her bidding. It was the first point she had made. And the last. "No, my lord."

Brevere only smiled. "You'll need to become a better liar if you hope to survive in Orlais, my young friend," he said as he pulled a sealed letter from inside the breast pocket of his jacket. He handed it over. "Take it back to your mistress. She will be expecting it."

"I can deliver it to the First Enchanter upon my return to Montsimmard, if that is what you wish of me," Taesas said as he took the letter.

"See, now _that_ is much more convincing," Brevere said with a hearty chuckle. He gave Taesas one last look up and down. "I do hope we meet again. Conversing with you was a welcome and engaging change of pace for the Empire."

Before Taesas had a chance to make his way to the servants quarters to rendezvous with his Templar handlers, he was stopped by the household guard. They diverted him, quickly and concisely explained that he was under arrest for conspiracy and dragged him away through a back passage, down a flight of spiraling stairs into the dungeon below the keep. They shackled him to the wall. The only light was a single lamp burning in the hall shining between the thick bars of the narrow window in the door. The only other item in the cell was a wooden bucket.

For the next two weeks, a different person came in every day to interrogate him. They asked the same questions. He did not answer them. They fed him well and provided him water and wine. When they were done, they left and did not return until the next day. They never struck him or tortured him, although he was sure they certainly could.

On the last day of his captivity, a young woman with bright green eyes came. She didn't bring food. She didn't ask the question. She hummed a quiet tune to herself as she reached inside the wide sleeve of her dress and pulled the knife. She did not say a word as she crossed the cell and knelt before him, holding the knife behind her back as if she was hiding a flower from her lover.

"Who did you give the letter to?" she asked in between her humming.

"The household guard took it from me when I was arrested," he said.

She rolled her eyes and whistled. "Why are you lying to me, elf? I saw that fat shit Brevere give it to you. It was clever to hide you here. Maybe he thought I wouldn't find you. But he was wrong, again. Now let me ask you again, mage, who did you-"

Her statement was cut short as her body lurched forward, a gasp of breath escaping from her mouth as the crossbow bolt punched into her back. She slumped forward, gasping for air and wheezing as her lung filled with blood from the wound. The knife clattered out of her hand. Her fingers scraped against the stone floor of the cell frantically, her humming silenced until a pulse of blood leaked between her pretty lips and she fell motionless.

In the small window of the cell, Taesas could see the Ghislain guard shoulder his crossbow. "Little bitch," the guard said. "Inform Duke Bastien the bard has been dealt with while I cut the elf loose."

Within minutes he was free, being led back up into the chateau to meet with Duke Bastien and Vivienne, who were quietly chatting in the library. He stood in the doorway with his hands clasped behind his back for more than a minute before Vivienne turned her head to acknowledge him.

"You did marvellously, darling," she said.

"I apologize for your lengthy imprisonment," Duke Bastien said. "I honestly expected them to take the bait quicker. Perhaps our enemies are getting smarter?"

Bait?

"More cowardly, my love. But the Marquis was right again. Brevere is more shrewd than he appears," Vivienne said to the Duke, brushing his thigh with her fingers.

"The Marquis had only good things to say about your performance," Vivienne said. "You made quite the impression on him. He's requested to treat you at his estate, alone. That is, if you're willing to continue to play the Grand Game."

Taesas couldn't have known what he was getting into then.

"And what will I get out of playing?" he asked.

Both Duke Bastien and Vivienne chuckled at the question.

"Why, of course, whatever you desire," the duke said.

And since then, he had taken what he wanted. He had taken power and influence. He had claimed position. He had exploited opportunity. He would become First Enchanter. There was only one prize he wanted, still sitting beyond his grasp, always just a little out of reach.

"That's good to hear. Even though it's been many years and we've walked different paths, we're still brother and sister, you and I," Nethra said. She smiled, her eyes suggesting genuine contentedness as the corners of her lips turned up. "When I got older and learned more about magic, learned about what was done when the clan had too many mages, I never agreed with it. There were others, after you."

"That's very kind of you to say," Taesas said. It was as if he were speaking to an entirely different person. This Nethra was quiet and agreeable. Her posture was docile. She reminded him of the same weak and scared little girl he had known before he was cast out.

She was so thin and so frail. It looked as if she rarely ate or saw the sunlight. This was just a shell, a weak and neglected vessel for what was hiding inside. Demons were cunning, but they were rarely cordial. It was there somewhere, but it was not here, now.

"What happened to you, Nethra?" he dared to ask. If the demon was away, it might be his only chance. It would not want him prying.

"Fen'Harel spoke to me," she said. "He showed me that there was another way, a better way. We push him outside of the camp and turn him away from us, but there is so much he can teach us. He is the balance between the darkness of the Forgotten Ones and the pride of the Creators. He walked among both but served neither because both were flawed, like we are flawed."

"Nethra, listen to me," Taesas said, curling his hands into fists and pressing them as closely together as he could within his manacles in a pleading motion. "It is not Fen'Harel. It is a demon that controls you."

"It is him, he has showed me!" she said defensively. "He does not control me. He is here to guide me, to guide our people. That's why I've led everyone here. He's coming back, in the flesh, to lead us against the humans."

Every word out of her mouth was nonsense, Taesas knew. She was not the first of the Dalish to claim that she would be the catalyst to liberate the Dalish and reclaim their lost heritage. She was not the first, Dalish or human, to claim that she was being led by a divine presence. Only holiest Andraste had done that and she had the Maker's power behind her to prove it.

He was running out of time and he could see her agitation growing. Her eyes darted around the room and the cords in her neck were tight. It was not anger she spoke with, but desperation and fear. She was still the frail, weak child she had always been.

"You know that's not true," Taesas said. "How long have you been here? Months? Years? Your people are desperate and dying. Anyone could see that."

The waifish girl was trembling now as her eyes sparkled as if wet with tears about to be cried. He had struck a nerve, but it wasn't sadness that he stabbed in her heart. It was doubt, clear as could be seen as her pink lips fell open just slightly.

"That's not true." She tried to defend herself, but he had broken her into pieces and her words sputtered out weak. She turned away from him and paced toward the halla in the pen. Her steps moved more confidently now and her shoulders straightened. She reached out her hand, rubbing it gently across the nose of the beast as she cooed and whispered to it. It jerked its head away from her, but she held its jaw in between her long fingers. "You've been away a long time. I need your help to prepare for his arrival. The fire worshippers have led you astray and you've forgotten your heritage. You're still Dalish, even if you've forgotten."

It was the second time she said something like that. The first time, he had let her get away with it. Better judgment might have told him to swallow his tongue and let the second one pass too, but his pride would not allow it.

"You and I are nothing alike."

She didn't respond, only leaned her head down and kissed the frightened halla on the nose. Her right hand snaked around her back, pulling at the handle of the dagger there. As she pulled the knife, she dragged it through the halla's neck, spilling hot blood over her other hand.

The beast jerked and squealed, but her left hand was glowing red around its jaw, holding it still with a paralytic energy he could feel from across the room. Nethra slipped the knife back into place and squatted to pick up the large wooden bowl on the floor. She moved it into place, collecting the flow of blood as it dripped out of the wound.

Her back was turned to him as she collected the blood from the snorting and fearful animal, it's eyes wide with agony but its body unable to move as she drained its blood. The heavy cuffs around his hands would be good enough. He could come up behind her and knock her across the back of the head. If it didn't knock her out or kill her, he could certainly stomp her fragile throat into the ground. He might like watching her struggle for her last breath under his heel.

But Nethra didn't have the key to his bonds and there would be no possibility of fighting his way out with his hands bound and the lyrium negating his power. He glanced around, not immediately spotting anything he could used to break them off. Even if there was something here, the racket from banging the metal on stone or metal would certainly draw attention.

Instead he watched the eyes of the halla go dark, it's tongue flopping out of the side of its mouth and its legs going weak in death. As the last globs of blood spurted into the bowl, Nethra released her magic and the halla crumbled into a pile on the ground. She turned around, holding the bowl triumphantly in front of her.

She lifted the bowl above her head, raising her eyes to the sky as she whispered an incantation. She lowered it down, holding her hand over the open top as she pushed magic down into the blood. Taesas could feel power unlocking, forbidden, demonic power being tapped in the bowl of gore.

After a moment, she withdrew her hand, sliding it back to the side of the bowl, stared momentarily into the stinking, glowing vessel, then placed the edge to her lips and tipped the bowl back.

Taesas cringed in disgust as he watched the muscles in her throat take gulp after gulp, as the blood dripped out of the sides of her mouth and ran down her cheeks. The blood spilled down her chin and dripped across her thin white raiment. She choked and gagged as the blood overfilled her mouth, her throat still churning as even more splattered down across her chest and ran down her clothes until it dripped onto the floor.

Nethra sputtered once more and bent her head back and she threw the bowl across the room. It clattered and rolled as it hit the floor, leaving a streak of halla's blood where it made contact. Globs of sticky blood clung to the ends of her silver hair and sanguine paint smeared across her mouth and cheeks. She dragged her fingers across her visage, muttering to herself with her eyes closed in some type of trance.

She opened her eyes, now staring at him with the steely hardness of their first meeting. The streaks of red painted across her face were a grim, barbaric mask. She smiled, her teeth and the inside of her mouth stained.

"You will help me fulfill the oath I made to Fen'Harel," Nethra said, the duality returning to her voice.

"' _A lost son will return to you.  
_ _He will burn with the fury of Elgar'nan.  
_ _He will exude the grim and cold of Falon'Din.  
_ _He will bear the shadow and secret of Dirthamen.  
_ _He will carry the sharpened intelligence and skill of June.  
_ _He will walk both worlds as have I, cunning Fen'Harel.  
_ _Make this man your mate and you will bear a son.  
_ _In that child, I shall return to lead the People.  
_ _The glory of Arlathan shall be restored.'"_

She pulled the words straight from the Beyond as the room grew chill once more. Taesas shivered not from the cold, but from the depth striking through him and from the unmistakable ebb of the Fade around him as the Veil thinned to nearly nothing.

"Join with me," Nethra said as she stepped toward him, dropping the straps of her dress off of her shoulders, the thin, blood-stained fabric falling down around her waist, revealing her pale skin, flat breasts and body so thin that he could count her ribs. Thin streaks of halla blood that had dripped underneath her clothes ran like grim tattoos across her chest. "Fulfill this fate and bear us the savior we desire."

She stopped before him, smelling of incense and iron as she craned her neck up toward him, her eyes starry and innocent as a child once more. Her hands lightly rested atop his shoulder as she pushed up on the balls of her feet to lift her lips toward his.

Taesas craned his neck downward, ignoring the disgust as his lips touched hers and he registered the metallic taste of ichor on her. He could feel the smear of sticky blood on his tongue as she slipped her between his lips.

If she believed that she would truly birth the Dread Wolf, he could deliver the fate she desired.

His hands darted quickly upward between her arms, his fingers clasping tightly around her throat as he jerked her head away from his mouth. Her surprised gasp was cut short as his hands tightened around her windpipe, squeezing hard until he pinched it closed.

Her hands dropped from her shoulders as he tightened his grip, gritting his teeth as he stared into her eyes, watching, waiting for the life to leave them. She was so thin and so weak that her hands did not even bother to try to break his grasp on her throat.

Instead, she met his gaze and smirked as he strangled the life out of her body. That only made him bite his teeth together harder, his lips pulling back in a snarl as he knit his fingers together on the backside of her neck, closing the locks around her.

He would stop this demon here and now. And he would kill Nethra, to exact the justice that the clan and its Keeper had denied him as a child. She would pay the price for the wickedness of the Dalish, for discarding him from his family and throwing him to the Dread Wolf. But the Dalish knew that Fen'Harel was the trickster, that his capricious whims could not be trusted. And so he had lived, only to return for this moment, to squeeze vengeance out of the throat of those who had wronged him.

His focus was only on her eyes, so much so that he failed to see her hands calmly moving to the small of her back. He failed to remember the sacrificial knife she kept there, until he felt it plunged into the side of his neck.

Now it was his breath that was caught in him as a cascade of blood poured into his rent throat, as his air was cut and he could feel himself drowning. Now it was Nethra who pressed hard, her hand firm on the handle of the knife as she pushed it deeper into his flesh, driving him backward and crushing him down to a knee. Now it was her hand, firmly planted on the metal cuffs, preventing him from reaching up to stop her with a strength that was impossible except for the demon that inhabited her body.

Taesas stared helpless up, unable to feel the waves of pain he was sure should be there if not for his body entering a state of shock. He struggled for breath, but only inhaled the blood that filled his windpipe. He watched the shine of blue light flash behind her eyes.

"I won't let you stop me from my destiny," Nethra growled as she pushed harder, forcing Taesas all the way to the ground. "When you awaken, I hope you reconsider my offer."

Taesas's eyes began to go dark, even before she withdrew the knife from his neck and pressed her glowing fingers to the gaping wound.


	23. Chapter 23

**Twenty-three**

The Keeper's back was slick with sweat, a slight shine across pale skin and wet, straw-like hair clinging to flesh as her hips thrust back and forth.

The muscles in the small of her back clenched in and out as she slid her hips, her palms pressed down on the chest of the man laying on his back on the low wooden bed draped in furs. Her head rolled around her neck, almost as if she was in a trance as she moaned and shrieked in her passion.

If she was aware that there were guests in the entrance to her hall, she didn't make it known. The Dalish sentry that led them here didn't seem to flinch either at the display, as if it was something he had seen time and time again.

Vell enjoyed a good lay as much as the next person, but this was tasteless. Have at least a little modesty and secrecy to the act.

Also, it looked like she was mounted on a corpse, lying limp and still on the bed.

Her hips thrust down and forward hard, once, twice, three times and she let out a scream. Her body shuddered. The body underneath her jumped and twitched. Her chest heaved up and down with heavy breathing as she quietly groaned and lifted her feet slightly off the bed before kicking them back down into the furs.

"Keeper," the sentry said now, loud enough so that she would hear.

The elf turned her head, looking over her right shoulder at the three people standing in the mouth of the cave. Ghi's eyes were lowered down to the floor, having chosen not to take in the spectacle. Vell locked her hands behind her back, to try to look respectful.

Ghi had given her a long and detailed lecture about what to expect, what to say, how to act inside the Dalish camp. Many Dalish clans were wary of outsiders. This cult would be even more wary than the usual Dalish. Acting and living on the outskirts of a society that was already highly isolated and endangered, they would be wild and fearful.

She turned her head back, lifting her left leg and swinging it over the side of the bed. Vell watched as the softening manhood flopped out of her, wet. The Keeper, a skinny, bony woman, picked up a loose robe and tossed it over her shoulders, sliding her arms into the sleeves and tying it the waist. She ran a hand through her white-blonde hair before turning.

"Please, join me," the Keeper said as she waved them forward.

As they approached, Vell got her first glance at her victim, a man nearly swallowed by the sweat-soaked bed.

Tae.

Vell nearly choked, disguised it with a bad fake cough as she looked at him. He looked sickly. His skin was kind of pale, too, and wet. His eyes stared up toward the ceiling blankly. He breathed in and out slowly. He had a red, fresh, wicked wound on the left side of his neck and red, bloody scratches across his chest from her nails. He wasn't wearing anything except a loose cord necklace adorned with three small iron charms. They were clearly Dalish, something so rugged and dull that she was surprised the enchanter would even allow it to touch his flesh.

Vell covered her mouth with her hand to try to hide the smirk blooming there.

She didn't know how he got there. But she couldn't help but be amused.

The Keeper took notice. "He is amazing, isn't he?" she asked, proudly. "An incredible specimen of a man. An amazing lover. The father of my child."

Vell pressed her fingers tighter to her lips and bit her tongue, forcing herself not to laugh. Father of her child? This forest was a rotting, stinking shit pile of trees. There was dirt everywhere. All of the Dalish looked like they were starving to death. And the Keeper was no fancy dress and makeup nobility slut. She wasn't even close to being the piece of ass that his middle-aged _Orlesian_ girlfriend Alycine was.

"He is stunning," Vell said with a snort. She couldn't hold in the giggle any more, covering her mouth again as it spilled between her lips. "I'm sorry, Keeper. I just… I didn't expect to see him here like this."

That only made her giggle more. Ghi was quietly shooting her a stern glance, but she couldn't stop herself.

The Keeper seemed oblivious to the entire thing, maybe mistaking her for some blushing _Orlesian_ maiden.

"I apologize," the Keeper said. "I'm aware that in the human cities this might seem improper. But there is no shame in the carnal. Life is beautiful and natural."

Vell swallowed, suppressing the last of her laughter. She glanced back at Taesas. He didn't make any move to cover himself. His face still looked upward, as if he didn't even notice she was there. He seemed almost paralyzed.

His hairless body was especially cut and toned, Vell had to admit. His cock was still hard and slick with the Keeper's wetness and his own semen. He was rather well endowed. Of course he was. Perhaps that explained half of his stuck-up, stubborn attitude. The big ones always had an undeserved sense of accomplishment.

"Would you like to lay with him?" the Keeper asked.

Vell nearly choked again. "Excuse me?" Maybe she didn't hear that right.

"Would you like to lay with him? He is my lover, yes, but he is also part of my clan. Everything that is mine is my clan's, as well as that of a welcomed guest. I do not mind." The Keeper extended her hand. Taesas didn't react.

Vell waved it off, although the thought of taking advantage of the situation would have done wonders to knock him so far off his pedestal. Maybe her trying to mount him might have kicked him out of his stupor. Maybe he would have died of embarrassment at being dominated by her.

But she didn't do elves. Nope. Never.

The Keeper motioned toward the fire pit in the center of the chamber and Vell and Ghi followed. As they stopped before the chairs, the Dalish hunter who had led them in swept behind Ghi, a long, curved knife wrapped around his neck and held at his throat. Vell made sure not to make any quick movements, only shifting her eyes to the side as the Keeper herself picked up a large, already-bloodied knife from the back of the room and sauntered back toward them.

Ghi appeared calm, breathing slowly as the hunter moved his free hand to unbuckle the guide's sword from his waist. The Keeper twirled the knife before wrapping her long, thin fingers around the handle. She approached Vell, lightly touching the tip of the blade to her throat, in just about the same spot where Vell had seen the red, raw wound on Taesas' neck.

" _Three outsiders will come to you.  
_

 _A lover – a lost son, who will conceive the Lone Wolf reborn.  
_ _A loner – a strong will, who is strengthened by solitary endeavor.  
_ _A liar – a cunning deceiver, who seeks to destroy all that is built._

 _Bed the lover.  
_ _Embrace the loner.  
_ _Kill the liar."_

The Keeper twisted the point of the knife into Vell's flesh as the Keeper peered into her eyes. This close, Vell was pretty confident should could plant a fist in her chest and knock her back. With a little magic behind it, she could knock her back into the rear wall. With a lot of magic, she could probably put the Keeper through the rear wall, or, at least, splatter her if she was too small to break the stone.

Vell didn't dare avert her eyes to check with Ghi. Although he had gone over several scenarios of what might happen inside the Dalish encampment, this wasn't one of them.

"In my old clan, there were very few girls my age. None of them were mages. I always felt so alone," the Keeper said. "I always wanted a sister."

The Keeper smiled a sad smile, but continued to hold the knife against her neck with a steady, unmoving hand.

"I like your hair," she said, brushing her fingers through the rainbow locks on the right side of Vell's head. "It's so wild. You must have a free spirit. What is your name?"

"Vell," she said, tilting her head slightly to the left to pull away from the Keeper's touch. She slowly, discreetly rolled her fingers into a fist at her side.

"My name is Nethra," the Keeper said, smiling again. "I hope we can become close. Tell me, Vell. Are you a liar?"

Vell did slowly turn her head now, looking at Ghi. The Keeper allowed her to move, keeping the knife pressed to her throat as it twisted. Ghi's face was blank, with the longer knife held closely at his neck too.

"If I am a liar," Vell, said, her eyes still on Ghi, not the Keeper, "Wouldn't I lie about being a liar?"

She was a liar. Ghi was a liar too. Taesas, lying comatose on the bed, was an even bigger liar than both of them combined. She had been warned that these Dalish might be odd, insane even. She hadn't taken the warning that seriously. Not this seriously.

The curved knife split Ghi's throat open, spraying red blood into the fire. The flames twisted and sizzled as the Dalish hunter stepped back. Ghi wobbled slightly, maintaining his feet even as his blood bubbled out of the gaping wound. He lifted his left hand shakily, pressing his hand hard against the wound.

"Fen'Harel… curses you… false… prophet."

The words came out of his mouth in barely sensible growl, over the strain of the blood coursing out of him.

Ghi let his hand drop away.

Vell could swear she saw a flash of silver light blink across his eyes. The tongues of flame twisted as if a gust of air swirled around them. The wolves sleeping around the fire jumped to their feet and quickly retreated to the back of the cave with tails between their legs.

Ghi's body immediately gave way and crumbled to the ground.

Nethra pulled her hand back, lowering the dagger from Vell's throat. She made a motion with her hand and the other Dalish slid his blade into a sheath and turned toward the exit, dragging the lifeless body of Ghi by the ankles as he went, leaving a red smear across the floor.

Nethra stared at the body as it went for a second, then pricked her finger with her steel, spoke a few words in the elven tongue, tossed the drop of blood into the fire, then dropped the knife into the pit as well. The fire quickly consumed the wrapped grip and scorched the metal black as it lay on the pile of burning wood.

"I know you wouldn't lie to me," Nethra said as she looked back at Vell, smiling. "Sister."

Vell didn't feel safe here. The Keeper gave her an uneasy chill. It wasn't just the way she murdered Ghi. It wasn't the way that Tae still hadn't moved a single inch on the bed in the back of the room. It wasn't even her unusual, odd, disturbing way of moving.

It must have been that smile and the way she spoke innocent words in an innocent tone despite the weirdness that surrounded her.

"Sister," Vell agreed, trying her best to smile too and pretend like everything that just happened was completely normal and not extra fucking crazy. Because it was. Not even the Templars just shrugged and killed people like that. At least they had the decency to recite some line of the Chant first and then get to the throat cutting.

"Sit with me," Nethra offered. "Please, we should eat."

Vell glanced around the room, looking for the staff. She didn't see it. She uncurled her fingers. She took the chair, sliding it to the side so that her feet didn't touch down into the pool of Ghi's blood on the floor.

"Taesas, please bring us some food and a skin of honey wine," Nethra said as she took her own seat.

Now Tae moved, sitting up, turning his legs and placing his feet on the floor. He collected his clothes, slowly slipping into piece by piece. He walked to the other side of the room, opened a small chest and began digging inside of it without a word.

The wolves began to slink back toward the fire, slowly, with their heads down. They circled around, brushing against the Keeper's legs. The biggest of the three cautiously investigated the pooled blood. The dog sniffed, its cheeks puffing in and out as it took in the scent. It lifted its head and turned, retreating back and curling at Nethra's feet.

The other two dogs glanced at the blood and backed away without smelling it, crossing behind Nethra's seat and also both curling onto the floor of the cave.

"I'm so happy you came to us," Nethra said. "I've been waiting so long for Fen'Harel's blessing, for his prophecies to be fulfilled. I've spent years waiting for these days. I'm so excited they have finally come to be."

The Keeper placed her hands flat against her stomach, or where he stomach should have been if she wasn't about ready to die from hunger, Vell thought. Could she really be carrying Tae's child? None of it made sense at all. He was the first person to gag on the Circle's cock. He wouldn't go native on them the second he got away from his clunky Templars. Would he? He had said he was born Dalish.

" _Uncouth savages and heathen worshippers, blah blargh!"_ Vell thought, using Tae's voice in her head. That seemed to make more sense than, " _I'd like you to meet my lovely wife, Crazy Fucking Nethra and my son, elven trickster god Fen'Harel."_

"I didn't realize I was anything special," Vell said instead, trying not to look or sound suspicious. "I just wanted to get as far away from the Circle as possible. To join my people."

She cringed inwardly at the thought of these Dalish being "her people." Ghi had suggested, before his inexplicably brutal and supposedly-prophetic death, that these Dalish weren't even the same people as "The People." Vell didn't even want anything to do with either set of elves, or those in the Circle or those anywhere else, much less Nethra the Shamelessly Enthusiastic Cock Rider and her band of hungry heathens.

They had pointy ears. She, too, had pointy ears. That was where Vell wanted the kinship to end.

"The blessed never know they are favored," Nethra said. "Shartan was but a slave, but he gifted our people with a homeland after centuries of servitude. I was the last of my Keeper's apprentices, until Fen'Harel came to me and gave me this purpose."

"What happened to the rest of your clan?" Vell asked as Taesas shuffled across the room, carrying a wooden bowl in each hand. He handed the first to Nethra, the second to Vell. There was a large wedge of flat bread, some greens and a strip of stringy, burnt meat that didn't smell like anything Vell had ever eaten.

He sat in the chair between the two women without a word. He folded his hands in his lap and stared down at the fire. He didn't have any food for himself.

"I told my Keeper of the great truth that had been revealed to me. She said it was nonsense and that our gods were gone. Even if they were not gone, the Dread Wolf could never be trusted, she said." Nethra lifted the piece of meat out of her bowl with her bare hand, tearing the crusty end off and dropping it back down. "I went and told the others about what I had learned. My close-minded Keeper banished me when I would not denounce my prophecy. But many of the clan followed me and became my people."

That meant that all of the other Dalish here were at least half as crazy as their Keeper, Vell noted as she nibbled the bitter leafy greens. She tossed it back into the bowl and instead picked up the bread, which was hard and chewy and bland and dry all at the same time. No wonder why everyone looked halfway to death. This food tasted like shit.

She glanced at Taesas, who was still staring down at his folded hands in his lap, ignoring them. As she tried to resist cringing at eating the strip of charcoal with mushy fat on the inside of it, she noticed the slight movement of his fingertips of his left hand, just barely brushing across the knuckles of his other hand. Except for that, he didn't seem to move at all beyond breathing. He barely even blinked as he gazed down at the fire.

" _Alas and verily, how dreadful that I must be dressed in such rags! I have a severe allergy to anything but the finest silk rubbing against my balls!"_ Vell said in her head in his voice again, to try to fill the awkward silence. " _Magic is meant to serve man, so get down on your knees and service the Chantry you insurrectionist child!"_

She chuckled as she gnawed and forced herself to swallow the bite of dogmeat or whatever it was the Keeper was trying to feed her. Vell lifted the skin of honeyed wine and spritzed it into her mouth, swishing it around her gums to try to wash the bitter and burnt taste away. At least the wine tasted good. She was sure later she'd fight out it was bear piss or something.

"And what about you? Why did you choose to leave?" Nethra asked.

Vell snorted at that question. The Keeper had probably never left the forest, but even she had to know something about the Circle. Then again, this wood was miles and miles away from the tower in Val Royeaux. Out here, she probably ran across more hedge witches than Templars.

"I couldn't live another minute in the Circle," she said. That was true. Maybe she wasn't the liar Nethra's little chant foretold. "Someone always watching you. Someone always telling you want to do. Someone taking away every bit of your freedom. Not even animals should be forced to live that way."

Angelo never wanted to accept that life either.

"I can see it was very painful for you," Nethra said softly.

Vell tossed her scrap of food back in the bowl and took another swig of the wine. She glanced at Nethra, whose big eyes were on her with what looked like empathy. Vell took an even deeper drink and glanced at Tae, who still hadn't moved.

"I survived," Vell said nonchalantly and ran her finger across the six rings in her ear, eager to quickly change the topic. "So what now? Is there some kind of test or something I need to pass to become part of the clan?"

Nethra kept her eyes on Vell for a second long as she chewed, then smiled. "Normally our young must undergo a trial. A hunter must successfully stalk and kill prey. A crafter must seek out raw materials and shape them into something useful for the clan. And so on.

"But I can tell you are already an accomplished mage. I can feel your power coursing through the Beyond," she said. "I trust that you are capable. I only ask that, if you stay with us, you agree to become my apprentice, my First, so that I may teach you the ancient magics and the ways of my people. If you agree, I can bestow you with the _vallaslin_."

Vell looked at Nethra's face and the black wolf tattoo, the open jaws ready to devour her right eye. She tried to picture what that would look like on her face and shuddered inwardly. As long as she got the staff soon, they wouldn't have a chance to needle her face like that.

"I'd appreciate that, Keeper," Vell lied. She tucked the rest of the uneaten food back into the bowl. "I appreciate your hospitality, but I have traveled far to get here. I would like to get some rest, if I may."

"Of course," the Keeper said with a big, kind smile, obviously pleased by Vell. Was she really this naive and stupid or was she just pretending too? If this is what it was like to play The Game by lying all the time, Vell was now doubly sure that being _Orlesian_ was fucking terrible. "Taesas, please find her a place to rest for the night."

At the Keeper's command, he slid out of the seat and stood, looking at Vell. He turned and began walking toward the mouth of the cave, which she supposed meant she should follow. She trailed behind him two steps, until they were out in the open and he turned toward a series of huts and tents on the far end of the camp.

Vell looked around and didn't see any other Dalish nearby, at which point she shoved him hard in the left arm. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

His eyes remained downcast at the ground and continued to walk as if he didn't hear her.

"Hello? Anyone in there? Tae? Wake the fuck up. We need to get out of her. Soon."

Still, he didn't answer and barely took notice of her. Although he was now walking and pumping his arms, she noticed the slight movement of his fingertips on his left hand.

"And what the fuck is this thing?" she reached for the crude necklace at his neck.

To her surprise, he moved. Fast. His hand wrapped around her wrist before she could lay her fingers on the necklace. His head turned, his face still blank although his eyes were staring at her. The muscles of his neck were tight and his cheeks and lips were moving, almost as if he were choking.

"N-no..." he said quietly, although it sounded like a short growl, followed by a grimace of pain that swept across his face. He struggled to breath, the corner of his jaw twitching under a great strain. "Pain…"

Vell pulled her hand back and he let it go as she looked at the necklace again. As she withdrew, his hand fell back to his side and he resumed walking, although slightly slower and with a slight limp as if someone had stabbed him in the hamstring.

She thought she took his meaning.

"The necklace?" she asked quietly as she could see a small clump of Dalish walking their way. They eyed her suspiciously as she walked with Taesas. "What happened?"

He didn't answer. She didn't know why she expected him to be able to answer. Something was seriously wrong. Whatever that necklace was, it had turned him into something close to one of the Circle's Tranquil. It probably wasn't an appropriate time to see the irony in the situation, but Vell hoped whatever was happening to him would open his eyes to what it was truly like in his precious Circle. Slavery.

The Dalish hunters passed close to her side and she could hear them muttering their elven gibberish. She turned her head to see one of them turn their heads too, staring her down as she walked away. The Keeper might have unconditionally trusted her because she was some prophesied "loner" come to help, but it was clear that the other Dalish weren't likely to take their eyes off her.

Not that she necessarily wanted Tae to wake up and be able to talk down to her, but she could use the help. After losing Ghi - where had they taken his body? - she wasn't exactly in her element. Sneaking around avoiding Templars in White Spire where she had lived her entire life was one thing. Sneaking around some Dalish camp in the middle of some haunted forest with will-erasing necklaces was another thing.

Not that Tae was any more accustomed to this situation, but when the rift had blown up at Ceraux he had reacted while she stumbled around nearly getting herself killed.

He stopped outside a small hut of wood and hides. Vell looked around again. There were other Dalish around, but she didn't care. She placed her hands on his back and shoved him inside the open flap of the hut.

He stumbled in but did not turn around to try to leave, instead staring blankly at her again. His fingers still twitched. His lips were quivering slightly, a barely-audible mutter coming between them. She didn't try to reach up and grab the necklace again.

"What do you need me to do?" Vell asked. She didn't think she knew any kind of spells that could help. She didn't really have any experience with enchanted items either, outside of in the escape from White Spire when she picked up that dead Templar's shield, deflected two flaming arrows with it and then blew that Templar's midsection out with a fireball. Dead Templar Number 3. He was one of the easier ones.

"Veh… ehl." He grimaced as he forced the two syllables out, swallowing hard.

"Yes, I'm Vell," she responded. She didn't have time for that.

"No…" he said again, closing his eyes as he took a deep breath. "Veh… veil. T-tear… veh…"

A shudder of pain seemed to course through him as the last word got stuck in his throat and his chest heaved as if he had been stabbed.

"Tear the Veil?" she asked. She wasn't sure she knew how to do that, first of all. Second of all, even she knew what would happen if she somehow managed to tear down the barrier between the physical world and the Fade. Third, she couldn't see how that would help anything at all. It wouldn't exactly be a subtle thing. "How? When? Now?"

"No," the word was quick and clear and direct as he swallowed again. "Know. You'll… know."

With that, he began to retreat backwards out of the tent, crossed through the hide flap and, assumedly, returned to the Keeper's lair.

Vell glanced around at the bland, tan interior of the hut. The ceiling rose into a pointed tip that was open and, aside from the slightly ajar flap hanging around the entrance, the only other source of light. Hewed poles of wood were roughly lashed together to hold the whole thing together. At least she hoped it would hold, before the whole thing collapsed on top of her overnight.

And there was nothing inside. She guessed she was sleeping on the ground, again. So much for the Keeper's hospitality.

Maybe tomorrow the Keeper would meet her with staff in hand. A quick, unexpected punch to the gut, grab the staff and run away. Maybe no one would have to be killed. Or maybe she'd have to flatten the entire damned village and break all of the hunters in half. She didn't want to do that, necessarily, although it might make a good test for her new powers.

Whether Tae would make it or not, well… He did save her life that once at Ceraux. Maybe twice if she counted the work he had done to patch up the wounds on her back. She would count the rift explosion, demon attack and healing as one, she decided. She couldn't stomach the thought of maybe owing him twice.

Leaving him behind would be easier. Better, too, so she wouldn't have to listen to him all the way back to Skyhold. He did ask her to tear the Veil, after all. _That_ was just as not right as everything else that had happened in the last hour. She hoped Fiona was nice and snuggly in a chair reading a dusty book back at Skyhold, because if Vell ever got back she would have to consider tossing the Grand Enchanter off the battlements.

Vell sat down, leaning back as she glanced out of the open hole in the roof at the darkening sky. She placed her hands behind her head and groaned.

Stuck for now. But for how long?

 _You'll know._


	24. Chapter 24

**Twenty-four**

 _Maker, have mercy on me_

 _Andraste, have mercy on me_

"You're limping," Nethra said. Her fingers were cold, despite the warmth of the chamber. She touched them to the wound on his neck, her fingertips grazing across the raised and damaged flesh. She pressed them down just slightly, causing a spike of pain. "What have you done, Taesas?"

 _Maker, hear me_

"Pay attention," Enchanter Tallian said as he slipped the golden rings off the end of the scroll. He slipped the small rings into the large pocket at the hip of his dark green robe and unrolled it. "This may save your life one day."

 _Andraste, hear me_

The bedframe creaked loudly, Lady Deancellete's hands pressed firmly to the headboard, the top of her head a mere inch from striking it with every thrust. She knew a secret about Duke Bastien. She had agreed to trade it in exchange for a trophy. His thighs clapped loudly against her backside, hands clutching equal parts fat and bone as he gripped her pelvis and drove deeply. It was business, but even Taesas caught the look of tired satisfaction on his own face in the tall, standing mirror as he hunched over her in exhaustion.

 _Maker, creator of all, have mercy on me_

The grass was wet with dew. The wind rustled the trees. He watched the squirrels jump from branch to branch and listened to the birds singing their songs in the low branches.

 _Maker, father of creation, have mercy on me_

"Sylaise. We call her the Hearthkeeper. She gave the elves the gift of fire and taught us how to use it. She taught us how to cultivate and use the herbs, how to heal, how to care for the sick and bring the young into the world. She taught us how to take the raw fiber and weave it into cloth and how to take that cloth and make it into all kinds of things. She is the sister of Andruil. While her sister travels far and wide to hunt, Sylaise tends the home and makes it bountiful from within."

 _Maker, King of the Golden City, have mercy on me_

The azure with jet. No, perhaps too dim for the early evening gathering. The white, with the golden buttons, then.

 _Maker, giver of life, have mercy on me_

Taesas slid the book back onto the shelf, taking the next in the series. The study of glyphs was tedious, but each pattern had its own subtle beauty to it. One missed stroke, one broken line or unsteady curve and the magic would fail. With careful practice and thought, the greatest spells could be built as a sum of smaller pieces. He returned to the table in the back corner of the library, sliding out the chair, resting the book gently on the table and opening its aged pages. He sat and began to read.

 _Maker, keeper of eternity, have mercy on me_

He awoke, rubbing his eyes. It was dark. His shirt was wet, damp from where he had been lying against the rich, black earth below him. He looked around. There was no one near. "Mother?" There was no answer. "Father?" There was no answer. There was only the white stone idol of a wolf sitting regally on a pedestal. Instead of fur, it was coated in green moss.

 _Holy Andraste, protect me_

"Taesas, fetch the girl for me. I would like to go walking with her through the wood this morning." At Nethra's command, he rose from the bed and walked along the path until he reached the tent. Vell sat inside, cross-legged, and lifted her brightly colored head to him. She didn't hate him, for the moment.

 _Holy savior, protect me_

"I do not love you." Vivienne folded her hands on her knee atop of perfectly crossed legs. "But I do respect your candor."

 _Holy leader, protect me_

The white haze of frost wicked around the edges of his extended palm as he turned slowly away from the defeated rage demon melting into a pool of molten stone and disappearing into nothingness. Taesas carefully scanned the places between the trees, searching, breath steady, mind focused. "What are you trying to prove, elf?" The curling, lispy voice seemed to come from every direction at once. He turned as the trees began to shake and tumble to the sides. The giant, purple demon stepped through the forest easily as if he were marching through tall grass. And when Taesas thrust his hand forward to attack, his eyes flitted open, seeing the high ceiling, the stained glass and the eyes of the Knight Commander peering back down at him.

 _Andraste, of infinite grace, protect me_

Brevere's hand brushed Taesas' cheek softly and the Marquis smiled. "You are so beautiful." The Marquis' lips were dry upon his own.

 _Andraste, purest heart, protect me_

The crack was loud enough that even the other Templars turned their heads. Taesas dropped his staff and fell to his knees as Matteo cradled his arm, spitting on the ground and breathing between his teeth as the others helped him to his feet. Before he left, he patted Taesas on the shoulder with his good arm and said not to worry about it. He had never hurt anyone with his magic before. The power frightened him.

 _Andraste, gentlest guide, protect me_

The way Vivienne's fingers curled around the stem of the wine glass and the way it swept swiftly away from her body as she feigned a laugh at a jest was more beautiful than the most agile dancer. Taesas studied the way her cheeks lifted, the way her eyes sparkled, the delicate sound of laughter slipping between perfectly colored lips. He glanced along the curves of her dress, three separate layers of lace and nothing else, but stacked atop one another so perfectly that nothing beneath was shown but everything was imagined. The rounded profile of her breast set him aflame.

 _Mother of freedom, protect me_

The robe made no noise as it struck the ground. Nethra's left leg lifted high, swinging over his body. Her hand gripped him, gently stroking up and down until he grew stiff inside her grasp. She straddled his hips, lifting her body slightly until she was aligned above him before she slid slowly downward, taking it all deep inside of her. Her fingers fell across his chest, nails pressing down like ten needles piercing his skin.

 _Mother of mercy, protect me_

The sting of her fingers across his cheek only made him stiffen more. "You will not speak to me like that again," Vivienne scolded. "Am I understood?"

 _Mother of grace, protect me_

"He has the gift." Ishemaya wrapped her hands around Taesas' fingers, extinguishing the small tongue of flame he held in his palm. The Keeper whispered a quiet prayer as she squeezed on his tiny hands. Taesas looked at his mother and his father. There were tears upon both of their faces. The Keeper finished. "I will do my best for him," she promised. She lied.

 _Mother of chastity, protect me_

The bard's arms twitched, stretching, reaching for something although there was nothing to grab. The two spikes of ice pierced her between shoulder and breast, holding her to the wall. Taesas lifted the mask off of her, tucking it under his armpit as he lifted her chin and look at her face. She was Lydian, as he expected. She was afraid. He pressed his fingers to her forehead. Her body seized and her eyes rolled back in her head as her brain froze inside her skull.

 _Mother of purity, protect me_

He lifted the flap of the envelope. Although it was addressed to him, it had already been opened. Vivienne kept her eyes on him as he scanned the fanciful script. "An invitation to the Wintersend ball in Val Royeaux," she explained. "The yearly pinnacle of the Grand Game. Everyone who is relevant in Orlais will be there." The Empress's signature adorned the very bottom of the card.

 _Queen of the pious men, protect me_

The liquid in the cup tasted sour. His mother placed her hand over her mouth as he drank, then turned her head away. The Keeper spoke the ancient words as his vision blurred and grew dark.

 _Queen of the freed men, protect me_

His groin clenched at the flitting of Brevere's tongue, splashing semen deep into the Marquis' mouth.

 _Queen of the holy men, protect me_

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Enchanter Taesas," The empress extended her hand, which he carefully cupped and planted a kiss upon the large ruby ring upon her finger. She stared down the length of her delicate arm, eyes full of daggers behind her mask. "Madam Vivienne speaks very highly of you." He dared not avert his glance to check her face, because he knew Celene's words were fabrication. He responded that he served a great many members of her court, but none as regal as her. None as powerful as her, he actually meant. He would relish the opportunity to serve her. The Empress knew at least something of his reputation. "That's very bold of you, Enchanter. And I do not care for bold men." He smiled politely and excused himself.

 _Queen of the righteous men, protect me_

"It is time, Taesas," Nethra commanded with a sweep of her hand. He went, at her side, arm in arm, as she led him to the shrine.

 _Queen of the virtuous men, protect me_

The body lay upon the altar. The elf had been stripped bare, feet placed together, arms folded across his chest. Around his neck was wrapped a thick bundle of cloth to hide the mortal wound. Out of sight, on his back, were the multiple punctures, deep gouges that had drained for two days, flowing down the grooves of the ancient stone table until they pooled in the cistern below. A golden bowl filled with dark crimson blood.

 _Bride of the Maker, breaker of chains, give me strength_

Nethra pointed and Taesas bent, falling to his knees on the platform before the altar. The sky was bare above them, black and moonless and devoid of stars. The few, wispy, grey clouds slid past in silence above them. He lowered his head, pressing his chin to his chest, resting his fingers at the edge of his knees. The Keeper guided Vell, placing her on her knees next to him. Nethra turned her back, lifting the gnarled wooden staff as she began to prepare the ritual.

 _Bride of the Maker, liberator from tyranny, give me strength_

"Tae…" Vell's whisper felt as if it came from a thousand miles away although she knelt next to him. He could feel the black figures of the other Dalish gathering around them in a ring, their hands clasped before them as they chanted in echo to the words Nethra spoke over the corpse. "Tae? Wake up." He was awake. He was aware. He was so close.

 _Bride of the Maker, sacrificed in fire, give me strength_

His fingers stretched, moving slightly as they touched the dust on the ground before his knees. Taesas ignored the feeling of tension, the subtle ache like being stretched too far and tearing, ripping, breaking, as his single finger moved at the command of his will.

 _Bride of the Maker, undying in reign, give me strength_

The flash of light and burst of heat as the flame leapt from the brazier. The swaying of the Keeper from side to side. The glow of the staff as it circles above the bowl. The rotten smell of tepid blood as she touched her fingers into the bowl. The sound of blood and water and crushed herb and powder colliding. The scrape of pestle inside the edges of the bowl as it combined into a thick fluid. The sizzle of metal as the needles touched the coals. The low, uniform, discordant chanting of the Dalish. The twitch in his finger as it jumped, his wrist screaming as he moved his hand in his lap.

 _Bride of the Maker, forgiver of wickedness, give me strength_

"Who shall be the first to receive the _vallaslin_?" He could feel the tug, the shove, the thrusting upon his will. He could feel the strength returning to his jaw, to his tongue, to his lips. He could feel the compulsion to act, to speak, to answer her question. He tried to fight it, pressing his teeth together with whatever shred of will he had left. He could feel her command building, like a flood held back by flimsy dam, water growing higher and higher and heavier and heavier, ready to break at any moment. His finger trembled as it touched the dirt.

 _Andraste of the flame and the light, who freed the world from magic, hear me_

He could feel Nethra's eyes boring into him, her anger flaring and her power swelling.

 _Andraste of the flame and the light, who freed the world from magic, protect me_

He could feel his jaw opening, the rattle of breath coming up his throat, the vibration of voice turning wind to word.

 _Andraste of the flame and the light, who freed the world from magic, save me_

"I will."

 _Pray for us, daughter of man, Bride of the Maker_

 _That I may be worthy of your promise and power_

Nethra spared a momentary glance of dismay to him, then turned with the bowl to the other elf who had volunteered in his place.

"Vell," the Keeper spoke. "You were born outside the People, but you have found your way home. Do you accept the markings of Fen'Harel, our guide and savior, and swear your life to his purpose as we all have?"

 _Pray for us, father of fathers, creator, builder, Maker_

 _That I may be worthy to bask within your glory and power_

"Yes," Vell answered. His finger flitted, shaking, so close. It stretched down, marking the last line in the dirt. He lifted his fingertip away, his eyes tracing over the markings as he recalled their meaning in his head.

He could see it clearly now. The aged scroll that Enchanter Tallian unrolled before the newly-Harrowed mages. He would teach them this incantation, that they might never fall prey to the demons they had confronted and overcome in their trials.

The elder enchanter, his patchy white beard and eyes glazed with cataracts, his knobbly, wrinkled fingers tracing over the black inked lines of glyphs. Underneath the lines of markings, he read the words aloud, reciting the prayer, the plea for protection to the most holy.

The words were tangled with the runes, so that one could not exist without the other. Each would need to be traced and the words recited to activate them. There were many such scrolls that had been prepared, to be used, but there might come a day when they could not be reached, Tallian taught. If then, what would they do, without this knowledge?

Taesas had studied the glyphs for weeks, committing every line and curve to permanent memory. He connected the words to each pattern, memorizing them one at a time, then together in pairs, then in lines, then in sections. And in the end, it had all come together into one piece. Into one composition. Into one spell. Into one life's devotion, work and product.

He summoned the strength of his hands, sending the command from his mind, down his neck, down his arms, through each of his individual fingers. And slowly, his palms lifted from his knees.

"Let us pray…" Taesas muttered as his tongue moved in the cavern of his mouth and his breath combusted into spoken words. He stretched, opening his jaw as if pushing open a door that had been sealed for ages as the hinges screamed and protested at being moved from slumber.

Nethra turned her head at the sound, seeing the two palms raising before his body.

"Taesas," she said. "Taesas, stop what you are doing."

The command pierced him like a spear and his hands froze in place, elbows bent at his sides, fingers dangling just before his chest. His tongue. He forced the words onto the tip of his tongue as his eyes flitted over the markings in the dirt. He remembered the patterns he had traced against the cloth of his robe, against the coverings of the bed, against his own bare flesh, against the wind as it blew through the camp.

"Maker, hear my cry…" he said. "I give my head, my hands, my heart, to you…"

"I command you to stop!" Nethra shouted as she placed the bowl down, her arms reaching to grasp him.

The crack pealed like thunder, a flash of green light and draft of air. Nethra toppled backward, thrown, as the green flame fluttered around the open palm of Vell, extended before her in a single, powerful strike.

His hands began to move again, reaching upward, rising.

"I beseech you, answer my call

I invoke your power in my name, Adralla of Vyrantium

Shield me from the black magic

Protect me from the wickedness of blood

Make me deaf to to the whispers of demons

Break these chains that encircle my thought"

The glyphs in the dirt began to glow with white light as he spoke, their power igniting and flowing forth to give him the strength to act.

As his hands wrapped around the black cord hanging from his neck, the rope scalded his flesh as if he were grasping the flame itself. He could smell the stink of his burning skin, feel the fiery agony coursing through his hands as he tightened his grip around the loop of rope the Keeper placed around his neck.

The metal tokens lifted and jingled, vibrating and twisting of their own volition as if someone were shaking the necklace violently. Taesas held tight as it burned through skin and blood and muscle beneath, filling his body with horrific agony.

"For yours is the power and the glory everlasting"

His arms tightened as he pulled the cord away from his neck.

"Through the Maker and the Fiery Bride Andraste…"

His words were prayer wrapped in screams as Nethra's countermagic spells scorched his palms and the daggers of pain planted in his head stabbed as he unraveled the corrupting net of blood magic she had woven through his mind. He opened his mouth and screamed with one, final pull.

"I… will… be… SAVED"

The cord snapped.

His body fell in the opposite direction of his hands as the broken necklace fell from his grasp, the three tokens glowing with red-hot fury at being disturbed. There was smoke rising from his hands. He watched as the black burnt skin sloughed away from his hands and the red, raw wounds like a morbid stripe painted across his palms.

He could feel his heart. He could feel his breath. He could feel the pulsing pressure and pain from the raw gash in the side of his throat. And he could feel the lingering, fiery hell that he held in both of his hands as he doubled over in agony.

"Do it now!" he screamed with his first, free breath.

He raised his hands, using what little scraps of mana he could reach and cling to, throwing out the barriers around them as the first hail of arrows struck and deflected off the magic sphere.

He wouldn't be able to hold it for long.

She would have to do the rest.


	25. Chapter 25

**Twenty-five**

Vell didn't know what the fuck she was supposed to do.

The Circle didn't teach apprentices how to tear the Veil open. Even if they did, she was pretty sure she missed that day. She missed most of the days.

She watched as the arrows struck the opaque barrier like rain hitting glass. The Dalish were drawing blades, ready to charge. Taesas's desperate spell might be able to hold the arrows, but they wouldn't stop a charging, pissed-off elf intent on gutting her with that curvy sword.

Nethra groaned as she brought a hand over her gut where Vell had popped her, scraping the gnarled staff along the ground as she struggled to her knees and tried to stand.

Taesas would be no help. The burns on his hands looked so deep and black, charred and raw, that she didn't know how he could even focus to summon a spell. The oozing red wounds across his palms were enough to make her stomach turn. And that was saying something, since she had smiled with pride at the way the melted metal of the Templar helmet had run and fused into the side of the side of the man's burned cheek on her way out of White Spire.

She sidestepped the first slash of the first sword, checked the sword aside with a flash of magic and turned, bringing her leg around in a swooping kick that landed in his stomach. She wrapped the Veil around her leg, adding the force as she threw him across the clearing with a bone-breaking crack.

Vell sidestepped to her right, towering above Taesas and sprayed a blast of fire at another Dalish charging his flank, sending him careening away to avoid the bright red tongues of flame.

Nethra rose to her feet, a grimace as she straightened, leaning heavily on her staff. Another arrow struck the barrier and the hazy shield falling at the strain, Taesas' arms falling as he collapsed into the dirt.

Another Dalish charged with sword brandished and she stepped into the strike, throwing up her arm with a burst of rift magic to block the slash like a shield, following with a fist to the chest. She could feel his ribs crack as the puff of green fire burst around her fingers in the strike and he crumpled into the ground.

"Stop!" Nethra's voice cut as she held one hand over her stomach, waving her staff in the air to halt the Dalish around him. "Stop this madness!"

The Dalish froze in place, bows drawn taut, swords held at the ready at their shoulders, feet scratched into the dirt and ready to charge. Vell slid back, stepping in front of Taesas' fallen body, placing herself between the Enchanter and the Keeper. Vell clenched her fingers in and out, eyes darting around at all the Dalish ready to kill her at a single command.

If things weren't bad before, they had gotten much worse now.

"Why?" Nethra asked her, her face twisted in the chill of betrayal. "Why are you doing this?"

They were the same kind of questions Vell had begged in the darkness, long ago, with cold, thick chains were wrapped around her wrists and ankles deep below the towering White Spire. No one ever gave a satisfactory answer to her. Everyone ignored her.

"What did you do to Taesas?"

There was a sudden chill in the air, a small wisp of icy air that seemed to tangle through the shrine clearing. None of the Dalish seemed to notice, but Nethra stood taller, her arm pulling away from her stomach as she straightened.

The grove seemed to grow even darker, if that was possible on the moonless, starless night. Even as the light dimmed, Vell could swear that she could see even more sharply. The air seemed to move, shadows dancing in places that shadows shouldn't be able to exist.

She reached out to touch the Veil.

It barely felt there at all. Weak. Stretched so thin that it could barely hold back the Fade behind it, like a thin textile pulled so taut that she could see the small spaces between the finely woven fibers.

Vell didn't wait for Nethra to answer her.

She lifted her hands, reaching out, pulling handfuls of the Veil into her palms in big bunches, as if she were grabbing the curtains around a window from either side. The green glow around her hands grew brighter, shining until she was too blinded to see Nethra in front of her.

She heard some sort of shout from the Keeper, but she couldn't make sense of what it was over the sound of ripping, like cloth being violently torn in two.

There was a vacuum blast of air as the tear materialized, a shimmering rip in the air, breaking the barrier between the physical and the beyond. There was a howling of wind going in, a rush of cool magical energy pouring out.

And then it burst, a flood of magic pouring out of the Fade that was so strong she lost her grip on her magic and stumbled backward as if hit by a wave.

She stepped backward, her heels bumping into Taesas as she nearly fell backward over his unconscious body.

Nethra's head turned in shock as she looked at the ragged, broken edges of the Veil as she retreated a step too.

"What have you done?"

And those were the last words Nethra could as her eyes shone with a cold blue light, her body shook and convulsed. Her head rolled back. Her mouth fell open wide. That blue light began to shine out of her open jaw too as her arms and legs went rigid and lifted off the ground. A high-pitched whine ripped out of her throat, followed by a swirling smoke of black and blue spiraling in the air above her.

The other Dalish had seized as well, their bodies rigid as the same smoke wafted out of their bodies, floating into the cloud above the Keeper. It roiled in a ball, twisting, warping, like an animal trying to fight its way out a bag.

And then it spun. A crack. A jolt of cold through the air. The bodies of the Dalish fighters all slumped and fell, lifeless.

Tattered black robes. Long, skeletal arms. A hunched posture. The black, empty hole of the hood filled with a head made of nothing but teeth and frost and ice.

Vell's hands fell to her sides. She tried to move her feet but they wouldn't budge. Her breath caught in her throat. The paralysis that gripped her was not demonic magic, but from within her as the demon turned, hovering above the ground, and saw her.

 _Despairrrrrrrr_

"Kill it!" Tae groaned from the ground, cradling his oozing palms.

She wanted to respond, wanted to move, wanted to run away screaming. But Vell could do none of those things as the demon considered her, slowing floating in her direction, its white dead hands glowing as it fed off the power bleeding from the Fade.

Around her, the grove seemed to transform, from the dead, dark ritual grove to that of a bright, green sunlit forest and a small, silver-blonde girl crying. The images seemed to whip by all at once, too quick to view, yet she could feel them all.

A failed mage. Despised by the clan. Cursed one. Weakling. Desperate to prove herself. The blackened ruins. An admonishment. A warning. A forbidding keeper. Depression. Desperation. She goes. A deep staircase. Old, weakened seals. The weakness in the Veil. Plunging deeper. Dread. Fear. Desperation. The chamber. The staff. Fen'Harel. Long forgotten. A warning, forged in blood, eons ago. A faltering will. Desperation. A final resolution. A slashed hand. A bloody palm breaks the seal.

She claims the staff.

The demon claims her.

She convinces the others to follow her. They starve, wither and die. The demon claims them, too.

It requires more to feed on. More to empower it. More to fall and be claimed.

 _Despairrrrrrrr_

The scream caught in Vell's throat as the demon stopped before her, a single, skeletal finger reaching for her. Her eyes followed it as it moved closer, unable to run, as the death-cold touch pressed the space between her eyes.

* * *

"Sit down."

The red-robed Enchanter behind the desk motioned to the small, empty chair. The Templars let go of her arms with a gentle shove forward. They didn't leave, standing just behind the high wooden back of the seat as she set herself upon it.

To his side was another mage, an older woman with long grey hair tied back in a ponytail. She frowned as she looked at Vell. She didn't know if it was disapproval or pity or both.

A third Templar stood at the side door, his arms dutifully crossed behind his back and his cold, steel helmet covering his face.

"I'm Senior Enchanter Timeo," the middle-aged man with a thick, black moustache and parted black hair said as he folded his hands. "And I understand there was some… discord, in the dining hall this morning with the Templars."

"The Templars-" Vell tried to start explaining.

"Silence," he commanded with a sharp crack of his voice that made Vell's lip curl back. She wanted to cry again. She had cried all morning in her bunk as the two Templars stood on either side of her bed to make sure she didn't run. After hours, they dragged her here. "I don't care what you _think_ they did. To attack a Templar. To kill a Templar. It's inexcusable!"

"But they-"

"Not another word!" The Senior Enchanter slammed his fists down on the table in a rage.

Vell did begin to cry again then, sniffling tears that rolled down her cheeks. If she could just explain, if she could show someone what had been done to her finally, they would have to do something about it, she had thought.

But she knew that wasn't true.

No one would do anything about it. No one would help her. No one cared.

"We live in a society built on rules, laws and common decency," the Senior Enchanter droned. "What happened this morning is beyond barbaric. It's beyond savage. Mages living in the Circle cannot act this way. There are consequences for your actions."

The enchanter snapped his fingers. "Bring him in."

The third Templar opened the door, stepped out. A moment later he returned, leading another man.

The sunburst burned into Angelo's forehead was red and raw and bloody.

Vell's hands covered her mouth and she screamed, an explosion of tears as she shrieked in horror to see him standing there, arms dangling at his side, face dull and blank and eyes infinitely empty and Tranquil.

"It is only by Andraste's infinite mercy that they let this miscreant live at all," Timeo shouted over her wailing. "This killer, this… murderer, will be a reminder of the price paid for disobedience and discord in the Circle."

Vell couldn't take her eyes off the sunburst in the middle of his forehead, of the cuts and bruises on his face that he didn't seem to notice or mind at all as he stared lifelessly at the back wall of the room. He didn't take any notice of her, didn't blink or shift his eyes or move at all. And Vell couldn't stop screaming as the infinitely deep pit opened within her.

The Senior Enchanter continued as if she were intently listening to him. "For reasons beyond my understanding, the Knight Commander has demanded that you be sent to the Harrowing Chamber immediately. Why they don't give you to the Rite or execute you is beyond me."

He leaned back into his chair, penting his fingers. "Enchanter Elodie will oversee your Harrowing for the mages," he said, motioning to the older woman. " _If_ you somehow live through the ritual, heed this advice. Change your ways. Because the next time, there will be no mercy."

He motioned to the Templars. "Take her away."

The Enchanter led her down the twisting hallways of White Spire, a few steps ahead of the two Templars who trailed them on the route up the tower to the Harrowing chamber. She didn't remember any of it, only the way her chest burned as she gasped for air and the pain in the corners of her eyes.

"It's not right," Enchanter Elodie whispered to her, bending down and speaking quietly enough that the Templars could not hear her. "What happened to you. What happened to your friend. What they're doing now."

Vell didn't care. The Enchanter didn't care. No one cared.

"They shouldn't be sending someone your age for a Harrowing," Elodie said. "It's not right. You're not ready."

She glanced over her shoulder again at the Templars then leaned back to Vell once more.

"I'm not supposed to say anything, but I can't just hold my tongue," she said. "They are sending you into the Fade to face a demon. Maybe many demons. Don't trust anything you see, hear or feel. It's all just an illusion."

Vell sniffled again, wiping her nose as the large, looming, ornately runed double-doors of the Harrowing chamber appeared at the end of the hall. They arrived before the doors and Elodie crouched down, placing her wrinkled palms on Vell's shoulders. She tried to smile.

"Live," she said. "They'll try to take everything from you. Don't let them."

"That's enough, mage," the Templar said.

Before he could pry her away, Elodie bent down and gave Vell a hug and wiped the last two tears off her cheeks with her thumb. The Templars ripped her away, shoved Vell into the dim chamber with a single, golden font glowing blue in the middle of it. Several other Templars were already waiting in their shiny armor with swords strapped at their hips.

They dragged her before the glowing font, the Templar wrapping his hand around her right wrist and lifting it. Vell didn't attempt to resist.

"'Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him,'" The Templar quoted. Without another word, he forced her hand into the glowing pool of liquid. She could feel a tingle rushing up her arm, a sickness stirring in her stomach, a spinning of her head and a drowsiness in her eyes.

When she awoke, she was lying on the stony shore of a small pond in the middle of the woods. The setting sun was casting long orange beams through the boughs, birds were singing and the wind caused the water to lap and ripple quietly on the smooth, rounded rocks.

There were no buildings she could see. There were no roads. There was nothing but quiet solitude.

Only Angelo sat at the edge of the water, the ripples of the water washing over his bare feet.

"Come on," he said as he waved her over. "Come sit with me."

There was something, some twinge in her head like a memory she couldn't quite recall as she looked at him. But the sunbeams were warm and the gentle lapping sound of the water were just too peaceful to resist. She sat on the edge of the water, dipping her feet in the cool, clear water, too.

Angelo leaned backward on his palms, reclining as the orange light consumed him. He let out a sigh, turned his head and smiled at her. "It's beautiful here, isn't it?"

She wiggled her toes, running them across the smooth pebbles underfoot. Blue birds zipped over the water, singing and bobbing up and down as they crossed from tree to tree. The air smelled like flowers.

"How did we get here?" As she tried to remember, there was nothing there. It felt like a big, black empty hole in her head.

"You don't remember?" he asked, with a chuckle. "You were pretty tired, I guess. We broke out. Right out the front door. Just ran past the Templars, ran through all of Val Royeaux. We ran out the gate and we just kept running."

He reached over and pulled her left hand into his right. "You put your hand in mine, just like this, and swore you wouldn't let go."

His touch sent a shiver through her spine as she nearly hiccupped on her own breath caught in her throat. He smiled again. His eyes sparkled. She breathed in the scent of his musk.

"Where is here?"

Angelo squeezed her hand and chuckled again as he looked over the water. "I honestly have no idea," he said. "But it's nice, right?"

"Nicer than the Circle," she agreed.

 _The Circle._ The word seemed to bang loudly inside the empty place in her head. When she fidgeted, she could almost feel the puckered flesh on her back crinkle on itself.

"Maybe we should stay here."

"Hmmm?"

"Stay here. Live here. Maybe I can… I could build a house, where we could live."

"Angelo…" Vell cocked her head to the side and gave him a teasing smile. "You don't know the first thing about how to build a house."

He scratched the back of his head with his free hand and laughed. His other hand squeezed hers again, sending that same, thrilled shock of cold up her back.

"Well, maybe I could learn," he said optimistically.

"You don't have to do that," Vell said as she leaned over, resting the side of her head on his shoulder. "I don't care where we go, as long as we're together."

Angelo nodded. "I'd miss you if you weren't here."

 _"_ _Where have you been? I missed you."_

Vell remembered the mess hall in White Spire. She had just sat down for breakfast. Angelo's prying. The Templar's blood on the wall. The screaming. Strong hands around her arms. The dim office. The Enchanter's bitter words. The door opening. The sunburst on Angelo's forehead. The sunburst. The sunburst. Tranquility.

Vell sat up and tried to pull her hand away, but Angelo squeezed to hold it tightly in his.

"What's wrong?" he asked, seeing the confused, frightened look on her face.

The long hallway. Metal Templar boots echoing in the empty corridor. The old lady enchanter. A hug. Live. Live. _Live._

"You look like you've seen a ghost," he said.

She tried to pull her hand back, but he was still holding on tight.

"You're… you're Tranquil."

Angelo laughed out loud, touching his forehead with his other hand. "What are you talking about? I'm fine."

"Can you let go of my hand?" she said as she tugged again.

"What's gotten into you?"

"Let go of my hand."

"Vell, calm down. Everything is –"

"Just, please. Let go of my hand," she pleaded as she began to sniffle. She could feel the tears building up just on top of her lower eyelids. "I don't want to stay here. I want to go."

"Vell, I'm fine. Don't go. I don't want you to go."

She grabbed his wrist and tried to pry her hand out of his, but he was too strong and she was panicking. The tears were now rolling down her cheeks. She wanted to scream, but no one would hear her.

"This isn't real," she said as she tugged again. He squeezed harder. "Stop. Stop it. You're hurting me."

"Stay here. Stay with me. I'll protect you. I'll save you from your despai _rrrrrr_."

The last word seemed to crackle and hiss out of his lips as he seemed to grow larger around her. The sun quickly dropped below the horizon. Darkness crept in. He seemed to expand with the shadows of trees that stretched across the ground. The air grew suddenly colder.

"Let go! Let go!" She was screaming now, frantically trying to pull her arms away, her feet trying to kick him. But her feet didn't seem to hit anything, just a pile of cloth as the shadows melted into a thicket of black rags.

His face twisted, his copper skin fading lighter and lighter until it was pale and dead. As she looked down at his hand, she could only see taut flesh stretched across gnarled bones.

 _Despairrrrrrr_

The air seemed to freeze in her throat as the billowing pile of cloth and smoke expanded. The grove grew darker and darker. The bony fingers locked around hand even tighter as the demon showed its true form, reaching toward the pit inside her where she was drowning in tears.

The demon's grabbed her other wrist, wrapping around her wrist tighter than even the Templar's manacles. It pulled itself in closer, it's icy cold breath sucking the warmth right out of her chest as the memory of countless whippings, of nights curled on her bed crying as a child, as the horror of seeing Angelo's tranquil face all raced through her head as if they were all attached to a string being quickly pulled out of her skull.

 _Despairrrrrrr_

She screamed. Or at least she tried to scream. Whether it made any noise, she didn't know. There was no one to hear her. Her stomach felt suddenly deep and empty, the familiar pain like the hunger of her childhood starving on the streets of Val Royeaux.

She couldn't tell if her heart was racing or if it had frozen in place in her chest. The darkness settled all around her, enveloping her as the demon pulled her arms wide and began to descend toward her chest.

 _Despairrrrrr_

Vell felt the shock of ice as the demon's head touched the bare flesh of her breastbone, the pressure and agony as its toothy jaws began to chew, piercing her flesh as it tried to burrow its way inside of her.

After months, years of learning to fight the pain inflicted upon her, she could not hold herself now as the demon gorged through flesh and blood.

Vell screamed.

A haunted howl.

A fearful shriek.

A dreadful wail.

And something within her, something deep and chained and forged by years of torment, broke.

The burst of power seemed to explode from within her stomach outward, waves of burning light and heat, of scorching wind, of immeasurable pain and suffering kept locked away and not unbound.

The despair demon's grip came off of her in an instant, it's body thrown backward, the waves of gold and green and white and yellow disintegrating it like corrosive acid. It's black robes tattered and pallid flesh were shredded and blown apart like dust, until all around her the darkness was replaced by the aurum from within.

And when it stopped, her entire body jerked and she awoke on the cold floor in the darkness of the harrowing chamber.

When she saw the armor-bound Templar looming over her, she screamed again.

Vell scratched against the floor, instinctively pushing herself away as she trembled and shook with fear, a wash of warmth running down the insides of her legs as she shoved herself into the corner and curled on herself.

"Maker's shit," the Templar said with a laugh. "She pissed herself."

When she felt hands on her, she flailed and shrieked as if the demon reached for her again before she realized between the gentle touch and the consoling coos that it was only the old enchanter.

"Calm down, calm down," the enchanter said as she wrapped her arms around the frightened girl, brushing her hair with her hand and humming a quiet, sweet melody into the side of her head.

"You're safe. You're safe now. You're alive," Elodie cooed.

Vell could do nothing but shake and bawl into the enchanter's blue cloth robes.

* * *

When Vell blinked again, she could feel the death-cold hand clamped across her mouth and see the hovering, black miasma that surrounds the demon. If it knew her mind or sensed her consciousness return, it didn't make any indication of it.

She could feel it trying to sap her power, that same cold, tugging sensation pulling from the depth of her stomach and the ice within her veins. She couldn't be sure how long it had been, only that time had passed between its touch and now.

This was not that same demon from her Harrowing. She doubted that was possible. But as she lifted her hand and wrapped it around the bony wrist of the demon, locking her fingers tightly around it, she would make sure it met the same fate.

When the demon felt the squeeze of her hand, it finally moved, but too late.

The flames were already wicking up her arms, pulsing down from her shoulders and quickly spreading up the dry, dusty robes. She lashed out with her other hand, seizing a clump of the rags in her right palm and holding it tightly, pulling the demon closer to her as the magic fire engulfed her body.

This time, it was the demon who was struggling to escape. This time, it was her grip locked around it in a death clamp. This time, it was her easing it in closer and closer, devouring the fear as it realized its approaching destruction.

Vell could feel the heat as the flames consumed the demon, it's hisses of pain inaudible over the crackling of the fire as the mass of robes turned into a twisting, amorphous bloom of flame.

"I'll never be consumed by the likes of you," she swore as bones and flesh crumbled to ash in her palms and she finally lost her grip, watching as the smoldering mass fell to the ground, squirming and writhing and falling still as the fire consumed the last of the mass.

She looked beyond the flames and the smoke. At the altar, just below the rend in the Veil that she had torn, she could swear she saw the figure of a wolf, wreathed in gold light, sitting just before the stone platform where Ghilathen's body lay in repose.

When she tried to look at it, to focus her eyes to fully observe it, it was gone.

The edges of the air where the Veil seemed to flap calmed, fell together and grew still, until the space in front of her where the tear was looked no different than any other patch of air in Thedas.

The air seemed to regain the normal warmth of a midsummer evening. She could hear the sounds of insects in the wood. The black night sky above was dotted with small, faint stars that hadn't been there before, or, at least, were obscured.

Scattered around her, the bodies that had once been the Dalish were now only desiccated corpses in tattered, rotten cloth and leather, each frozen in the throes of their death.

Taesas stirred and Vell bent down to help sit him up, trying to not look at the horrid burns across his hands or smell the reek of burnt flesh that clung around him. The Enchanter groaned, bending the knuckles of his fingers inward in agony as he looked at the scorches and tried to cope with the pain he must have been feeling.

"The demon?" he asked, weakly.

"I killed it."

"Good."

There was a pained cough and moan from Netha's pale, thin body splayed on the ground near the altar.

"Help."

The word was whisper quiet and weak, her body already as motionless as death.

Vell glanced down at Taesas. "Help me stand," he said.

She placed her hands under his armpits and squeezed his chest, doing her best to pull him up as he tried to lift himself on his own unsteady, shaky legs. He grimaced at the movement and lowered his hands to his sides, glancing at the piles of smoldering ashes first and then at Nethra's body second.

Taesas crossed his right forearm across his stomach, minding to keep his hand free, and began to shuffle toward her, his left hand arm dangling at his side as he dragged his feet in the dirt.

She followed just a step behind him, ready to catch him as he looked like he was going to collapse at any step.

Nethra's mouth was smeared with blood that ran down her chin and covered her neck and chest as if she had violently vomited after a night of hard drinking. It was as if the demon had forcibly ripped its way up her throat to escape her body.

Her eyes were glass as she lay flat on the ground, her arms splayed out. In her left hand, her fingers were still weakly wrapped around the haft of the staff.

"Tae," she said as she smacked her lips, globs of thick, black-red blood clinging to her lips as they moved. "Please. Help me."

Taesas moved his right foot, kicking the staff out her palm. He slowly lowered himself down, falling to his knees next to her, just under the angle of her arm stretched perpendicular from her left side.

Nethra's chest heaved and she coughed again, bubbles of blood oozing out of the corner of her mouth as she turned her head slightly toward him.

"I'm sorry," she said. Then her words seem to curl in her throat with a whine. "I don't want to die."

Taesas looked at her, observing her ashen face and the quiver in her body. The Keeper was so weak, barely clinging to life. He reached forward, the knuckles on the back of his left hand lightly brushing a single strand of flaxen hair off of her cheek.

Nethra tried to smile, as weak as she was, as her eyes lightened for one second and the corner of her mouth turned just slightly before another cough wracked her chest.

Taesas leaned forward, reaching, pulling a large, black rock from the line of stones that ringed the altar. He grunted, another grimace of pain cutting across his visage, as he pulled it between his palms, his fingers curling around the edges.

He lifted the stone from the ground, pulled it over his head, and smashed it down upon her skull.

He lifted it a second, third and fourth time, slamming it down as blood and bone sprayed up his arms, onto his lap and across his face. Vell turned her head after witnessing the first blow crush the woman's fragile, porcelain face into pieces. She jumped, feeling bile in her throat at the thump, the squishing sounds and the grunts of exertion from Taesas.

She lost count after the fourth blow, although there were many more that followed.

The enchanter whimpered after the last blow as he tossed the bloodstained stone aside.

Vell didn't dare to turn around the see the gory results. She didn't open her eyes at all until she felt Taesas' presence at her side.

He had wiped the blood from his chin and cheeks, leaving only faint red-brown shadows on his face. His left hand weakly held the Keeper's staff, point lightly touching the ground and his weight heavily balanced on it. He grimaced as he tried to balance himself.

Vell didn't know what to say, how to feel or where to look.

"Let us be rid of this evil place," Taesas said.

His words were as flat and cold as brutal murder.


	26. Chapter 26

**Twenty-six**

He could see the wall of light in the near distance, the sign that they were nearly out of the gnarled and knotted brush of the Tirashan.

It wouldn't be a moment too soon, and Taesas wouldn't feel sad if he never came back to this Maker-forgotten wood.

His palms still burned.

The amount of magic he had been able to work on himself was intermittent, at best. With the lingering effects of Nethra's blood magic and the muddling poison he had been fed prior to that, his recovery had been slow. It had taken time, days, to muster enough will to resist her control enough to begin work on the Litany. What little reserves he had, he had burned on the barrier to keep him and Vell alive long enough for her to rip apart the Veil.

The flesh was closed and the most acute of the pain had been dealt with, although his hands were still raw and red. If he could get a good meal and some rest, he could muster enough strength to heal them more cleanly, hopefully back to perfect condition.

His stomach still burned.

The days of hunger, the poison and the exertion of his labors all had left a twisting knot in his stomach that ached with every step and panged with every small divot his unsteady feet found. He could not remember a single meal he had taken while under Nethra's control. The only memories that stuck were the few brief moments he was able to resist and the long, slow process of weaving the Litany runes.

Was this was starvation felt like? His head was throbbing, his stomach wrenching and his mind cloudy. There were elves in the alienages of Orlais that starved to death every winter. The kitchens of the Circle were always stocked. The tables in the Enchanters quarters on the upper levels could often rival the fare of lesser nobles' courts, even. If not for the rebel trekking alongside him, he couldn't say that he might not have stooped to pick mushrooms or herbs from the dirt and stuff them greedily into his mouth.

His neck still burned.

The patch of flesh on the left side of his throat was beyond saving now. Nethra's healing had been crude and unfinished, enough to stop the mortal bleeding but little else. The flesh had not healed cleanly, leaving a bumpy, scabbed tangle of raw and rough skin overlapping itself. He could not see it, but as he ran his fingers across it, he could tell it was a grotesque token of Nethra's affection for him.

With time, concentration and a mirror, he might be able to do more to repair the wound so that it would not result in an unsightly scar. Doing so might require reopening the wound, cutting out the damaged flesh and repairing it magically. He did not relish the thought of the process, sitting in front of a mirror with a blade carving carefully around his own vital arteries.

If not for the Staff of Fen'Harel grasped in his left hand, the entire endeavor would have been a disastrous failure. Sadly, the mission had only succeeded because of the rebel. Had the Grand Enchanter not been quite so cunning, he dared not think about his fate in that scenario.

Vell hadn't said a word since they left the Dalish camp. She had only walked along side him, keeping with his slow pace as he shambled along, attempting to keep to the trails and do what he could to heal himself.

Serault would not be far now. He could send her along her way and take Briala's mirror back to Montsimmard, arriving at Skyhold long before Vell even made the first Inquisition camp outside the city. Once he was fed and rested, he could begin to plot the dialogue he would want to open with Vivienne to express his extreme displeasure at the course of events on the errand she had forced upon him.

"I would be remiss not to thank you for your assistance at the Dalish camp," Taesas said, stretching over a fallen tree trunk and balancing himself on the staff heavily as he lifted one foot and then the other.

She didn't respond outside of a slight "hmph" as she too stretched over the tree.

"And the Dalish who was with you. A regrettable loss," he said. When Vell didn't respond to that either, he continued. "Who was he?"

"His name was Ghilathen," Vell said. "Who was he? I don't know."

The answer was part truthful, part truthful ignorance and part guarded speech, he could see. She hadn't flinched when his throat was cut. He was Fiona's creature, no doubt, which only made Taesas wonder how the Grand Enchanter had come to make such a strange bedfellow.

"The demon you killed was very formidable," Taesas said, ducking under a low bough. "That was no small feat. I honestly could not be sure you would be able to defeat it. I owe my life to the fact that you were capable."

Vell spat, then wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Her lip moved, then stopped, and she didn't answer that. The encounter had stirred something within her, something different than the terror he had seen on her face at Ceraux. While that had disarmed her, this had emboldened her.

He could see the edge of the treeline now, just a few hundred feet ahead. It was midday, and the bright light from beyond was stabbing his tired eyes like knives when Vell stepped in front of him.

Vell put up one hand, pressing it against his chest to stop him.

"Tell me why you killed the Keeper."

Her mouth was drawn, her eyes were cold and her posture was solid. Her feet were spread slightly wider than her shoulders, standing before him like one of the immovable trees. It was clear she wasn't going to let him walk past her until he answered.

"She was already dead," he said as he stopped. "I was putting an end to her suffering."

He might have been able to save her, if he had been at full strength. He wasn't.

"That wasn't mercy," Vell challenged.

"I was in no condition to cast any spells, as you saw."

He might have been able to summon enough mana, if he wanted to give her a quicker death. He didn't.

"Bull shit," Vell challenged again. "Your hands were burnt to the bone. Yet you made a point to wrap them around a stone and crush her head. How many times did you hit her?"

"Enough times."

He might have been able to stop after the first or second blow, if he could have convinced himself that would be proper retribution. He couldn't.

"Why did you do it?" The tenor in Vell's voice was almost a threat, that sturdy, strong inflection. Taesas could always appreciate it when someone hit the note just right, even her.

And yet, she was merely rebel. A fool. An idiot girl who didn't know the first things about the functioning of the world.

"Am I to be judged by you?" He lifted his right hand, pointing to the golden rings in her left ear. "Perhaps I should be questioning you. Why did you kill those Templars?"

"They tortured me." She answered without hesitation, as if she had gone through the process of justifying it to herself many, many times.

"Not all of them," he said. "You killed them because you wanted to be 'free.'"

"I am free," she said defiantly. But her voice didn't hit that some powerful tone, because in her voice, she knew it wasn't true. He knew it wasn't true. She was out of the Circle, but still merely a pawn.

"And now I am free, too," Taesas said, leaving it at that.

She didn't need to know more. She didn't deserve to know more. If she had half of a contemplative brain, she would understand the statement for what it was.

"I could have killed _you."_

That statement had a different bite to it, the kind of statement an overconfident bard would make when circling her prey, while on the inside the butterflies were gnawing a hole in her coward's stomach. Vell had killed. But she would not kill him.

"And yet you didn't."

Taesas stared her in the eye now, impressed that she was not afraid to hold his gaze. He could see that fire in her, that hate simmering behind the blank, cold mask of disdain she wore now for him. Inside her, there was a tumult, the balance between her anger and her twisted and flawed sense of right and wrong. She wore the mask of a predator, but she was not.

He held that gaze for a moment longer. He lifted his chin just slightly, so that he might cast his eyes down on her just a little more, to remind her that she was only an amateur. She was merely a hot-blooded killer, a feral animal. She lacked the grace and intellect to truly be feared.

"Are we done here?" he asked.

"Just about."

Vell's hand wrapped around the wooden staff above his, and a second later, her fist was driving into his stomach with a crack of thunder, a puff of green flame and a force behind it so strong that it lifted him off his feet, ripped the staff out of his fingers and threw him into the trunk of the nearest tree behind him. All of the wind was knocked out of his chest as he crumpled into the forest floor with a gasp, a crack and one more injury to nurse.

As he lay doubled over on the ground, he remembered the familiar pulse of energy that he had felt above the cliffs of Ceraux.

That blow had the power of the rift behind it.

She gave him one last furious, pitiable look, and turned away.

"Vell." The name came out as a breathy wheeze as he struggled to breath normally again, but by the time it escaped his lips, she was already bounding out of the forest and away with her back turned. By the time he had enough strength to push himself back to his feet, she was gone, with no hope of catching her.

Taesas dusted the dirt off the front of his clothes, tucked the two braids behind his ears and stepped out of the Tirashan toward Serault.

Defeated.

* * *

Brevere recoiled in a moment of surprise as he stepped to the open doorway at the front of his manor.

"Enchanter Taesas! What an unexpected delight!" he said, delighted. Then he got a closer look, "Oh my. A thousand apologies, but you look frightful."

His neck was throbbing, the raw patches on his hands weren't healing as smoothly as he hoped and his clothing was still filthy. This was no way to appear at the house of a lord in Orlais, but after the past couple days, Taesas was momentarily beyond caring about propriety.

Ambassador's Briala gatekeeper at the eluvian had been prepared to guide him back to Montsimmard. But as he looked at the swirling liquid of the mirror, he had decided to change plans.

Vivienne could wait.

No doubt she would be a kettle of perfectly contained wrath when she found out he had lost the prize to the rebel girl. He was in no hurry to return and be subjected to the polite but pointed soliloquy outlining her disappointment.

"It's been a dreadful week, to say the least, Antone," Taesas said, forcing himself to crack a smile as if being beaten and bloodied as he had been were something that he could shrug off so easily. "I hate to insert myself like this, but might I impress on your hospitality for an evening or two? Until I've recovered."

The Marquis tossed the door open wider, his face beaming with delight at Taesas cutting straight to casual use of his first name, no doubt. "Yes, of course! Please, you are always welcome in my home."

Taesas stepped inside, his foot touching the first black and white marbled tile of the entryway, before noticing three figures standing at the railing above the central staircase, glasses of wine clutched in their hands. He recognized the woman on the far left, Brevere's wife Margot. The other two, he couldn't tell by a glance. Nobles, certainly, but perhaps smaller lords, local vassals of the marquisate.

"I didn't realize you were entertaining," Taesas said.

The marquis chuckled. "I'd hardly call this lot 'entertainment,'" he whispered. "There's a reason I'm a portly man, Tae. Too many guests and too much wine and food to treat them with."

As they approached the stairs, the conversation between the two nobles and Margot became audible as all three glared down at the elf that had invaded their house. Taesas could taste the palpable bitterness as Margot glanced over the rim of her cup while drinking much too deeply.

"I didn't know the marquis had a predilection toward animals," the man said, his northern accent confirming Taesas's suspicions that he was local nobility. His dark hair and oily moustache suggested there was more Nevarran blood in him that Orlesian. His voice was quiet enough to feign a private conversation, but purposely loud enough to be overhead.

Margot snorted at that, while the man's wife at least had enough class to look abashed at her husband's crudeness.

"Of course I do, Daniel," Brevere said sharply, as he glanced upward while beginning to ascend the staircase with Taesas.

"I don't try to hide it. I did, after all, choose to marry an odious sow."

An immediate silence settled over the room, except for the click of their footsteps continuing up the stairs. Margot's dull eyes were two lumps of smoldering hatred as she pursed her lips and pinched one of the pearls of her necklace between her fingers.

Margot knew better than to try to respond after a brutal insult like that delivered in front of guests. The lord's face was so twisted with shock and a sudden onset of fear at Brevere's gall that he suddenly looked as if he might vomit onto his own chest. His wife looked as if someone had punched her in the stomach, too.

"Marquis, I-" the man stumbled.

"Shut up," Brevere interrupted and the man immediately fell silent in the shadow of his better. "Enchanter Taesas, this man has insulted both my honor and yours. Would you like to dispose of him?"

"I am too weary from the road," Taesas answered.

Marquis Brevere raised his eyebrows as he looked back at his guest. "Well, Daniel, lucky for you that this 'animal' is too tired to take your life. Thank him. For you life."

"Thank you, Enchanter," the man said, as his eyes lowered with shame.

"Very good. I would say it has been a pleasure, but it hasn't. Show yourself out," Brevere ordered, his voice strong and confident, with that perfect tenor, strumming the perfect music of the Game played at the most masterful level. "And decide which of your children you think will be best be able to cope with the hardship of growing up as a cripple."

Taesas and Brevere were already walking away after that, and Taesas didn't bother to turn around to see exactly how white with dread either of their faces grew at that threat. Brevere withdrew the handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed the sweat off his forehead as he walked.

"I must be growing old," he said. "I find I have much less patience for the nonsense of the young."

"Are you actually going to cripple one of his children?" Taesas asked, turning his head to admire a new oil-painted nude the marquis had hung in the corridor since his last visit.

The marquis chuckled at the question. "It is a half day's ride back to Daniel's slovenly keep of stones, sticks and mud. The anguish he and his wife will undergo discussing which of their inbred children least needs the use of his or her legs should be sufficient. Frankly, I'm rather more interested to hear what their reply will be, whether they will provide an answer, plead for forgiveness and mercy or attempt to defy me."

Taesas rubbed the wound on his neck as a sudden jolt of pain pulsed through it and radiated into his shoulder.

"Have I ever told you how envious I am of your cunning, Antone?"

* * *

Brevere's excited breaths all smelled of wine, but it could be ignored as the marquis' hands kneaded through Taesas's aching shoulders and back.

The large bathing tub was gilded. The water, once nearly scalding, had cooled considerably but was still warm. The bath smelled of fragrant oil.

Brevere had been prepared to leave once the servants had set the tub. In gratitude for his hospitality, Taesas had offered for him to stay to converse. Brevere needed no convincing as Taesas began to disrobe, the marquis once more dabbing beads of sweat off his forehead with his kerchief as his eyes danced over the elf's exposed groin.

Brevere had sheepishly confessed that he had taken an interest in massage and then gathered the courage to ask if he might put his learned techniques into practice. Taesas agreed, another transaction completed to earn more of the marquis' goodwill.

Although he had not expected it, the marquis' hands still had some strength in them despite his age and his touch was more therapeutic than Taesas might have expected.

Taesas drank deeply from his glass of wine before leaning back deeper into the tub, closing his eyes and indulging in a moment's relaxation. His head was pounding from the lingering strain from the Tirashan and the dehydration of both the wine and the hot water causing him to sweat.

He needed a moment to wash away the grime of the forest, to cleanse himself of his failure and, most of all, to purge the embarrassment of being bested by Vell.

Taesas had planned to abandon her as soon as possible once they returned under the protection of the glass tower of Serault, taking the eluvian hundreds of miles away before she had any idea at all where he went. He had not expected her to do what she did, although he now cursed himself for not anticipating it. She was a thug and he had been in no condition to defend himself.

"Tell me, Tae, why are you hiding here?" Brevere said as his fingertips worked into the grooves between Taesas' shoulder blades.

Taesas would have preferred a peaceful quiet, but apparently Brevere wanted to play the Game. On friendly terms, of course, but for as much as an ally the marquis had always been, he could never be completely trusted.

"What makes you think I'm hiding, Antone?" he responded, checking a question with a question.

"I happen to know you never call on others unless you have need of something," the marquis said. He slid the palms of his hands up along the sides of Tae's neck. "Which reminds me, please thank Lady D'Tarlege next time you see her for me. She sent me a wonderfully painted nude of an unidentified man. Bold colors, although captured in a very dignified and restrained way."

Taesas could only smile at that notion and at Brevere's competency. It was always said that there were no secrets in Orlais, at least not to those who knew the proper way to listen for them.

"I didn't realize you two were friends now," he said as Brevere threaded his fingers through his hair, rubbing his scalp as if he knew exactly where all the throbbing was.

"I confess I can be a terribly jealous man."

"She asked me to run away to Antiva with her, you know," Taesas said, reaching for his wine glass again. "At the time I dismissed it for the joke it was. After this last week, I can't say the idea sounds too unappealing."

"With all the Crows and guilds in Antiva, I suspect you'd have an even harder time hiding there than you would here."

Taesas smiled again, knowing Brevere was not one to let his prey stray too far away. A little off-path banter would do, but the marquis was notorious for finding a way to pull back to where he needed them to be. Admirable.

Taesas placed the wine glass to his lips and tipped it again, enjoying this particular vintage red his host had chosen. The cellars were deep and always well stocked. He placed the glass back down on the tub-side table and let his hands fall back beneath the surface of the water.

Brevere let it go for a moment, working his hands back down to the intersection of neck and shoulders, his thumbs swirling in slow wheels across Tae's oil-slickened flesh.

"I never took you for one to try the silent treatment," the marquis said. "I assume you must be trying to avoid the First Enchanter."

"Must I?" Taesas said calmly, doing his best to mask that Brevere had the correct scent of the trail.

"I admit, I'm not privy to the inner workings of the Circle of Magi, but I'm not aware of anyone in Orlais you would want to avoid disappointing except for Madam de Fer."

He was right, of course. He had corrupted the marital beds of numerous comtesses, had insulted Dukes to their faces and even cautiously dabbled in the affairs of the Empress on occasion. There had been some minor failings, some unexpected twists at the well-delivered play of an opposing target, but nothing that could not be overcome.

But this, having the staff in his hand and then losing it to a malcontent, this was shameful.

"I expect she will be quite wroth with me when I return to Skyhold," he said, surrendering the point to Brevere.

Brevere allowed himself a small, satisfied laugh at having won the match.

"You have nothing to fear from Madam de Fer," Brevere said.

Taesas was glad that he was not drinking from his cup, because he might have choked.

"I have _everything_ to fear from her," he disagreed.

Brevere gave an exasperated sigh at that, as if he were dealing with a poorly disciplined dog that wasn't following commands or attempting to convince a rowdy child to obey their parent.

"And here I thought you were more wise," the marquis scolded as he rested his hands atop Tae's shoulders. "Tell me, what makes Empress Celene so powerful?"

"Celene is the midst of a civil war that's ground to a stalemate," Taesas interjected.

"Granted," Brevere said. "On her best days, then. From where does Celene derive her power?"

"She's Empress. The sole sovereign of Orlais. A magnificent student of the Grand Game."

Brevere's fingers trickled down over Taesas's shoulders, timidly exploring the ridge of his collarbone. "On the surface, yes. But Celene is considerably more powerful than her uncle Florian ever was. More powerful than even her grand-uncle Judicael. Why is that?"

The marquis wasn't normally one for riddles. Taesas lifted his wine glass and downed the remainder of the cup, considering the question for a moment as Brevere's fingertips slowly traced across his chest left and right.

The Empress was powerful because she held the greatest seat of power and was competent enough to hold it. There was no mystery there, that he could see.

"You have me stumped, Antone," he said after a little more consideration.

Brevere sounded excited, almost, as he began. "You're correct, in part, that part of Celene's power comes from being Empress. There can only be one leader of Orlais. And yet, Celene has always allowed the whisperers to whisper that maybe someone else should be the one wearing her crown. Not only allowed, but she has, to some extent, even encouraged the idea by so willfully ignoring it.

"She's powerful because she tempts others with something they can never possess," Brevere said.

Taesas considered it for a moment. "And you're suggesting I'm the same?"

"Absolutely," Brevere said, leaning forward now, letting his hands slide down the front of Taesas' chest as his nose nuzzled into the back of the elf's head. He inhaled deeply, as if it trying to imprint the scent into his brain. "I know I can never have you for my own. And, by the Maker, it drives me mad."

The marquis' head turned, his teeth nibbling at the pointed corner of Tae's ear, a groan as his hands clenched against the strong muscles of the enchanter's chest. Taesas didn't attempt to stop him as he considered Brevere's assessment.

He couldn't discredit the reasoning. He had been invited into the homes of many, many nobles because he was a curiosity of Orlais. It had started with Brevere, but it had grown well beyond a chance encounter of the First Enchanter needing an elf to entice the marquis. From there, others had taken notice too.

They saw the rarity, the novelty of a mage let loose from the tower of Montsimmard to come play with them, like a prize falcon being removed from his cage and unhooded to pierce the endless sky. They saw the taboo, too, an elf sculpted and cultured to tease the dark fantasy that played inside their heads.

One or the other, alone, they might have seen before. Influential and connected mages were allowed out of the tower. Many nobles sought to keep the most well-spoken, clever, talented or attractive elves in their household. But put together, he was something they had not seen, something that no one else had.

And, therefore, something everyone wanted.

All of that was true and it had been the route he had parlayed to influence. Taesas had known that, already, but there was something more that Brevere had been driving at. The point he had been trying to make, Taesas still sat and considered, inattentive to the exploring hands and enchanted sighs the marquis was making as he caressed Tae.

There was one question, the first question, the heart of the conversation, that still lingered unanswered in his head.

What was he, then, to Vivienne?

* * *

He was already beyond the point of being drunk as he pulled the cork from another bottle of red wine and poured it messily into the glass.

The single candle burned orange-yellow in the bedside lamp, the lavish bedroom otherwise cradled in darkness as he lifted the glass to his mouth and drank again. His headache had subsided, somewhat, although it would certainly be back in the morning. He didn't care.

The quiet rapping of knuckles on the door broke the silence of the room. He gulped another swallow of wine and placed the glass down on the bedside table.

"Enter," he said loudly enough.

The golden handle turned slowly, the heavy wooden door peeked open and the servant stepped confidently inside.

"How may I serve you, my lord?"

She was middle-aged. Dark-haired. Skinny. Elven. Brevere had offered him the full hospitality of his home. He had adequately fulfilled this request.

"Close the door."

The servant obeyed, shutting the narrow crack she had left open. She turned around, folded her hands behind her back as she had been trained and kept her eyes respectfully lowered toward the floor. She did not move away from the door.

"Come here," he commanded as he tipped the wine bottle and refilled his half-empty glass.

Again she obeyed, her slippered feet silent on marble floor as she approached. She kept her eyes downcast, but he noticed the way she stood up straight, her shoulders and chest puffed out. This was clearly not the first time she had been woken like this in the middle of the night.

"Would you like some wine?"

"No, thank you, my lord," she said quietly. She was not nearly as tall as him, but not short either. She was wearing a good cloth nightgown, clean and well-made. The woman had a good life here in Brevere's estate.

He downed the rest of glass, chugging gulp after gulp until the cup was empty. He tossed it aside, wiping the dribbles that had formed on his lips with the back of his hand.

"Do you know why you're here?" he asked as he slipped his hand underneath her chin to lift her eyes to his. She had dark eyes, and he was pleased that she did not try to avert her gaze.

"Yes, my lord."

"And you do not object?"

He slid his hand from her chin, tracing the line of her jaw up her neck and along her long, thin, pointed ear. His fingers rested on the black hair that fell down just at her shoulder with a slight curl at the bottom.

"I serve as my lord commands."

She spoke the words truthfully. She was a servant. She understood her place. It was clear that was not the first time Brevere had her sent to someone's bedchamber. He wondered when that first time had been, who it had been for, and if she had been frightened. Perhaps she did not relish this duty. But she accepted it, as any good servant should.

"I am going to ask you to do a few things for me and I expect you to obey me. I am the master." He released the strand of hair from between his fingers, cupping his hand around the back of her head gently. "Do you understand me?"

The woman did not hesitate, answering as any good servant should. "Yes, my lord."

"Good," Taesas said, reaching into his pocket and removing the folding straight razor. He smiled inwardly at the way she jumped as the blade snapped and locked into place, a momentary look of fear as she fixated on the sharp steel. He could feel her entire body tighten in his hand that cradled her head.

"I'm going to cut your hair now."

The tension in her posture released as she exhaled. Nervous, but calm. "As you wish, my lord."

Taesas stepped around her, twisting locks of her hair in his palm and pulling them lightly away from her head. When the strands were taut, he placed the edge of the razor to them, only needing to saw lightly as the keen edge sheared through her thin hair. He tossed the clump of hair to the floor and moved to the next patch.

The servant did not make a single sound as he worked, pulling her hair back and cutting it roughly with the razor. She stood stalwart, her hands clasped behind her back, eyes forward. She shivered as his fingers brushed along the edge of her ears as he collected errant strands and cut them.

When he came around to her front, her eyes were closed. She calmly inhaled through her nose, each exhale coming concentrated through a small O made by her lips, almost as if she were trying to whistle a happy tune. Taesas lifted the short bangs off her forehead and sawed them away too.

He ran his hand through the hair, lifting some of the longer areas he had missed and hacking them down until all that remained was a rough, short thicket of black hair closely cropped to her head.

He folded the razor and slipped it back into his pocket. As she heard the click of the razor, the servant opened her eyes and looked to him, awaiting his next command.

Taesas ran his fingers across the edge of her left ear.

"Take off your gown."

Her hands reached behind her neck, pulling the strings of the bow that held the garment in place. As they unraveled, she slowly pulled the nightgown away from her shoulders, letting it fall around her feet. She stepped out of it, kicking it a few feet behind her on the floor, then returned her hands behind her back, making no effort to cover herself.

Taesas traced the curve of her narrow hips, eyeing the bare mound of her pubis and the narrow cleft that divided it between her thin legs. Her breasts lacked the perk of a younger woman, with pointed, pink nipples firm in the chill of the bedroom.

He pulled the cords and slipped out of the oversized robe Brevere had given him to wear while commissioning a new set of clothing for Taesas before his departure and tossed it onto the bed. He gave his semi-hard manhood a single, lazy stroke with his right hand.

Taesas pulled her with his other hand, shoving her onto the bed. He followed behind her, urging her into the middle of the mattress. He pushed her down flat onto her stomach, turning her head so that her right cheek was resting on the covers just below the pillows.

He took the belt from the robe, pulled her hands into the small of her back and lashed her wrists together. Taesas pulled the cord as tightly as he could, knotting it firmly so that it would not slip or break. The servant fluttered her fingers in apparent discomfort.

He ignored it, straddled her legs, spit into his hand, rubbed it around the head of his cock and slipped inside of her. Her mouth twisted and eyes closed as he slowly pushed himself deeper, until he could go no farther.

He pulled back. She inhaled. He thrusted again. She moaned softly, an imagined utterance of pleasure meant to gratify and flatter him.

He pulled back. She hummed with more fake satisfaction. He thrusted, in one hard, fast movement, until he was buried to the root. The servant gave a surprised yelp and swallowed.

He pulled back. She groaned.

Taesas leaned forward, placing his left hand onto the mattress. His right hand, he threaded through her now-short, rough-cut hair. His fingers rolled in, squeezing the clumps of hair tightly into his palm. He pushed down, pinning her head to the mattress.

And when he began to thrust again, she cried out.

He admired the way her mouth contorted and twisted, the way her shoulders tightened and strained as she tried to move her hands, the way her eyes clenched close as she struggled, and the groans, wails and shrieks that escaped between her lips.

He grunted with each stroke, staring down at the girl, soaking in every moment of the passion, a mechanical in and out of his breath, the up and down of his hips, the loud and stinging clap of flesh on flesh.

Taesas bent low, taking the edge of her ear between her teeth and biting down. She squealed as his teeth punctured the skin, piercing flesh, unimpeded by the six golden earrings that weren't there.

His hand pulled, jerking her neck as he tugged on the fistful of hair, increasing the speed, increasing the strength, filling every inch of her with each forceful thrust.

He could smell the scent of the forest, could feel the humid air on his flesh, could see the midday sun on his shoulders as he pressed her face into the dirt.

He could recall the way he caught her fist in his palm, the way he bent her wrist back from the failed assault, the way she crumpled to her knees under his superior strength.

He could hear the sound of tearing cloth as he tore her clothes away, he could feel the way she squirmed in the mud powerless to resist him, he could taste the sweat as he ran his tongue along the nape of her neck and across each of the rings she wore to celebrate her murders.

He felt the ecstasy of ever thrust, of the tightened muscles of her legs, her back, her arms, her neck, futilely trying to resist him. He felt the way she squirmed, half-hearted, only a feigned attempt to fight her way from beneath him. He felt all of her sex, the pulses of warmth and wetness, the tightness of muscles squeezing around the base of his cock, the willingness at which it took him and drew him further inside of her.

He could feel the moment when her body betrayed her, when futile rebellion became complete obedience.

She could do nothing but surrender in the shadow of his dominance.

She would willingly submit to him. She would willingly accept her defeat. She would willingly accept her place below him. She would willingly plead him for mercy. She would willingly receive him. She would willingly beg him for pleasure. She would willingly pant, willingly moan, willingly scream for him.

Vell would willingly acknowledge him as the master.

Taesas' groin clenched, his orgasm spraying deep inside the servant girl, his hips pushed fully inside of her, his back arched as pulse after pulse of ecstasy washed through his body.

After the fleeting moment of immeasurable pleasure, he exhaled the breath he had been holding in his chest. He trembled with the aftershocks of pleasure as he withdrew his now-numb manhood from inside her.

He released his grip on the servant's head and lifted his other hand from the mattress, stretching the stiffness and tension out of his finger muscles, before running his hands across his sweat-slickened forehead and through his damp hair.

Below him, the servant girl was still, except for the quiet sound of pained whimpering from the mattress.

Taesas ignored it. He inhaled slowly as he tried to regain his breath, taking just a moment longer to bask in his triumph.

He was strong.

He was powerful.

He was the master.

He was nobody's lesser.

He would make sure Vell knew it.

He would make sure Vell remembered it.


	27. Chapter 27

**Twenty-seven**

"Do you trust me?"

The Grand Enchanter asked it as she adjusted the shoulder pads, straightened the sash and pulled the belt one notch tighter to cinch Vell's waist in.

She had objected to the idea of needing to wear "formal" wear to go in front of the Inquisitor. She double objected when Fiona had presented the red monstrosity. She had triple objected to Fiona demanding that she inspect Vell before they made away.

Vell was already pissed that Fiona's contacts had made her divert away from Skyhold and it's warm, well-lit, tavern filled with ale and wine and liquor, to the perfect palace, with its perfect hedges and statues and fountains where the Empress sat on her perfectly petite ass all day waiting for everyone to come and kiss her perfectly pink and puckered asshole.

"No," Vell answered as Fiona picked a stray hair off of the bottom of the jacket. "No, I don't. Not at all."

Fiona was too consumed in making sure Vell looked as perfect as every other perfect _Orlesian_ person walking around the perfect garden sipping perfect wine in their perfect clothes bought with their perfect money they got from all the not-perfect people they worked around like slaves to even scowl at her attitude. At least, Vell thought as Fiona straightened the cuff around the top of the tall leather boots, the Grand Enchanter hadn't tried to force her into some frilly fucking dress.

"Good," Fiona said instead, to her surprise. "You're finally learning."

Fiona turned around, checking herself in the mirror, quickly brushing something above her eyes and quickly ringing her lips with another swipe from the dark red lipstick on the table. She pulled at the wrinkled corners of her eyes, groaned, and then turned around, handing the gnarled wooden staff to Vell. She smiled, almost proudly, motherly, maybe, if Vell had had a mother capable of being proud of her.

"Please don't say anything more than you have to," she said. "For your sake, and mine."

Vell didn't like that notion, but Fiona was clearly in no mood to fight her. It was the middle of the damn night, anyway. Vell just wanted to get this over with, find the first campsite of Inquisition soldiers with alcohol to spare and get as drunk as possible. Maybe, if she could find a human who didn't look to bad or stink too much like wet dog, she'd let him play a little Naughty Apprentice.

She gave a curt nod, Fiona smiled again, more nervous than before, and turned, quickly leading her toward the largest tent in the middle of the Inquisition's small city. The Winter Palace loomed large in the distance, white walls gently illuminated in moonlight and its hundreds of windows twinkling in the darkness. They quickly cut through the makeshift lanes, arriving at the closed flap.

"I'm Grand Enchanter Fiona," she announced to the two Inquisition soldiers guarding the entrance. "Inquisitor Trevelyan is expecting us."

The guards opened the entrance without a word and they stepped inside.

"Thank you for seeing me at this late hour, your worship," the Grand Enchanter said with a respectful and extremely low curtsey to the Inquisition. "I will not take much of your time tonight."

Up close, the Inquisitor didn't look any more godly than he did from afar during the long, fucking ice-cold trek up the Frostback Mountains to Haven. There was that same slight green glow from his left palm, she could see. He had a good, strong, masculine jawline. A little prickly stubble. Rather dull brown hair pushed back off his forehead. Tall. Looked strong.

All-in-all, he looked like any other a man. Put several drinks inside of Vell and he might be a man she wouldn't man having inside of her, she thought. That would likely be enough to give the Fiona enough of a stroke to drop dead.

"It's been a long evening. Too long." The Inquisitor rubbed his shoulder with one hand while stretching out the fingers on his other. Vell noticed the large sword and the blood-splattered armor sitting at the foot of the bed.

She also noticed that sour-faced Seeker, who, as she had during Haven, couldn't seem to stop scowling at a couple mages free outside the tower. Vell wanted to so much to give her a flirty little wave and blow her a kiss, maybe do a jaunty little dance in a circle to celebrate being gone from the Templar-damned tower in Val Royeaux. That too, would probably cause Fiona to stroke.

There were others, too.

The curly-haired, golden-maned Commander looked good enough to swallow and gag on if he hadn't guzzled the Chantry's blue ejaculate in his earlier days that permanently spoiled him.

The ruby-haired woman next to him looked several times less inviting and many times more ominous. The way she stood there and glanced out of the corners of her eyes gave Vell a chill. She felt wrong, a mix of the pretty, phony grace of _Orlesian_ mixed with the burning fervor of a Revered Mother, mixed with the eyes of a back-alley knifeman mixed with the cool confidence of everyone's favorite girl at the fancy corner brothel.

The last woman, Vell recognized, by both reputation and by the invisible plume of smoke coming off her head as she glared at Fiona. Her dark skin and stormy face meant she had to be the wet dream of every Chantry bootlicker, Templar apologist, slavery-loving Loyalist.

"First Enchanter," Fiona said with a quiet tone of surprise and an antagonistic bow of her head. "I apologize. I hope I'm not interrupting an important rendezvous between you and the Inquisitor."

Vell squeezed her lips together to keep from smiling as she bathed in the faux affection dripping from Fiona's lips and the way that Vivienne stood there and took it, like the perfect little Chantry whore she was. She wondered if Vivienne even felt it anymore when the Templars jammed their fists up her asshole to work her like a hand puppet.

"We're not doing that again," the Inquisitor said firmly, equal parts frustration and fatigue in his voice. "What do you need, Fiona?"

"My apologies, your worship," Fiona said again with another polite curtsey that made Vell want to barf at how self-deprecating it was. "I bring before you the mage Vell of White Spire in Val Royeaux. She is the mage from Ceraux that you have been searching for."

Fiona turned around, her back to the Inquisitor and stared Vell in the eye.

"I humbly ask your forgiveness for losing account of her after the disaster, but I have managed to recover her and now turn her over to your judgment."

As soon as the Enchanter stopped, her mouth closed and she continued to stare at Vell, her entire face pleading. Fiona dared not move a muscle though, with all eyes in the Inquisitor's tent focused on.

" _Do you trust me?"_ she had asked.

Vell glanced at the faces, now each looking at her. Her eyes glanced past the First Enchanter, not the Inquisitor. Although Vivienne was as expressionless and still as Fiona, Vell could feel the way her eyes bored through her, the way they glanced down on her, waiting for her to fuck up. She had seen those eyes, that look, before.

On Tae.

Vell lowered her head.

"I'm… I'm sorry. For running," she said to the Inquisitor.. Then, trying not to gag on her own tongue, added. "Your worship."

Fiona dared a small smile, wiped it away as quickly as it came on, then turned around.

"The blame is mine, Inquisitor," Fiona continued, taking back over as she stepped forward. Vell glanced up just slightly, noticing the First Enchanter's eyes were still pasted on her. The others weren't paying attention any more, so she cracked the smallest grin out of the corner of her mouth that she hoped screamed " _Go fuck yourself"_ as loudly as she wanted to actually scream it into Vivienne's _Orlesian_ Circle face. "She was fearful that she would be blamed for what occurred in the city. If I may say, your worship, but she was not treated well in the Circle and is mistrustful that mages will get fair treatment, even in the case of accidents, such as Ceraux was."

Fiona was a manipulator, an _Orlesian_ , but Vell couldn't help somewhat admire the way she wielded lies and guilt like sword and dagger.

"I should have her arrested," Trevelyan said, cocking his head to the side as he considered Vell. His eyes, like most, floated up toward her head and stayed there as he considered her her multi-colored head. Vell turned her head slightly, turning her eyes to the side and down.

This is what people did when they wanted to look ashamed, right? Maybe not ashamed, but at least embarrassed.

She had done it before, for real, in those times when she tried to impress Angelo but made a total fool of herself. Her cheeks would get so pink and she'd feel both her stomach twist and her heart flutter as he laughed at her expense.

"But the important thing is she has been found," Trevelyan said. "The last thing the Inquisition needs is errant mages running around without our banner nearby to protect them."

"Thank you. Your worship is most merciful and gracious," Fiona continued to play, curtseying a third time. She didn't notice the First Enchanter change her stance and raise an eyebrow, but Vell did. "If I may have just a moment longer of your worship's time, that is not the only reason I have brought Vell here before you tonight."

Inquisitor Trevelyan began to unbutton his jacket and peel out of the same red formal clothing the others were wearing, seemingly unphased to begin undressing with the others around. "Go on."

"Thank you, your worship. The Maker must truly smile on the Inquisition. After fleeing from Ceraux, fortune, no perhaps divine intervention, led her to the cross paths with a Dalish hunter. He happened to be from a clan that is familiar to me. He had been on his way to Skyhold to share some critical new intelligence with the Inquisition, that he had become aware of a powerful, ancient elven artifact that had fallen into the hands of a dangerous Dalish cult in the Tirashan Forest.

"When Vell told him that she was part of our Inquisition, he told her about the staff. He wanted to make haste to Skyhold to share this information with your worship," Fiona said. "But my agent Vell was wise enough to know that the longer they waited, the more likely they would lose track of this item, the Staff of Fen'Harel."

"Fen'Harel?" the Inquisitor asked, turning his head. He looked as if he were hanging on every word, although Vell was wondering how considering how laughly idiotic Fiona's story was. Maybe _Orlesians_ were just stupid enough to believe anything no matter how ridiculous it was.

"Yes, your worship," Fiona said. "Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf, the elven trickster god."

Trevelyan snapped toward Commander Cullen. "Fetch Solas for me."

"Yes, your worship," the Commander said, glancing suspiciously at Vell as he passed and slipped out of the tent.

"Vell and this Dalish hunter instead turned north. They successfully infiltrated the Dalish clan. She was able to gain the confidence of the Keeper of the clan, who possessed the staff, but was herself possessed by a powerful despair demon," Fiona explained. "During a blood magic ritual aimed to induct Vell into their clan, she struck, exposing and defeating the wicked demon that had enslaved the Keeper.

"Through her cunning and bravery, she was successful in denying our enemies the use of this powerful elven weapon and claimed it for the Inquisition," Fiona said, putting the cherry on top of her tall tale.

If Inquisitor Trevelyan didn't believe her, he didn't show. As he slipped out of the blue silk sash that crossed his chest and tossed it aside, he pointed to the gnarled rod of wood that hung across Vell's back. "Is that it?"

Fiona turned her head and nodded to Vell, urging her forward. She stepped toward Inquisitor Trevelyan, ignoring the hateful stare of both Vivienne and Cassandra, and pulled the staff from her back. She held the staff on her upturned palms and extended it toward him, swallowing to prepare herself to spew nearly as much bullshit as Fiona had just fed him.

"I hope this staff will help the Inquisition in some way, your worship," she said, feeling bile in her throat as she choked out the honorific title again. She swallowed again to make sure she didn't gag on her words as she continued. "I apologize for my behavior. I ask your forgiveness. For my carelessness."

It would take a lot of alcohol to wash that memory out of her brain.

The Inquisitor lifted the staff out of her hand and inspected it, appearing as unimpressed by the chunk of wood as she had when she first saw it.

The tent flap opened again and the Commander returned with an elf. Tall. Bald. Dressed rather plainly. The Inquisitor waved him over and handed over the staff to him.

"Solas, I was wondering if you knew anything about this staff our mages had recovered from the Tirashan Forest. Supposedly it's the-"

"Staff of Fen'Harel," the elf finished for him. Unlike the Inquisitor before him, his eyes were alight with wonder as he looked over the staff, slowly running his fingers along the gnarled wood.

The Inquisitor seemed pleasantly surprised. "Then you know it?"

Solas' fingertips, alight with a soft blue glow, traced along the head of the staff and the staff seemed to react with a slight green glow of its own. He smiled, the fingers of his other hands wrapping around the neck of the staff and falling into grooves into the wood as if it had been crafted just for his hand.

"Yes," Solas said, still not taking his eyes off it. It was as if he hadn't blinked once. "I will need some time to study it, but, if I am correct, I believe this staff may not be so different than the orb used by Corypheus. I would ask your permission to study this relic closely, Inquisitor."

Trevelyan nodded. "By all means."

The elf finally took his eyes off the staff and instead turned them to Vell. He considered her for a moment. She felt weird, a different kind of weird than she had felt around Nethra, but still weird. The eye contact he made, she almost felt as if she had met him before, even though she was sure she had never seen him.

But without a word more, he took the staff and exited.

"I can't say I understand half of what Solas knows, but it seems like we've obtained an important item and an advantage over our enemies," Trevelyan said. He gave an approving nod. "You've done well. Thank you."

Vell couldn't help but feel a warm flutter percolate through her. Praise was something she was not accustomed to, least of all from anyone important. Maybe Fiona knew what she was doing after all…

"Inquisitor."

That was Vivienne. And she sounded like a stormcloud as her polite, sweet, word interrupted the moment.

"I apologize for not speaking earlier, but I must inform that you are being deceived by the Grand Enchanter and her," Vivienne looked at her with that same type of disgust that Taesas had for her. "Subordinate."

"Fiona?" the Inquisitor said, turning a suspicious eye to her.

"I have managed to locate the missing Collective mage from Ceraux," Vivienne said. "She has been training mages, _rebel_ mages, in a dangerous new form of magic derived from the Collective's illicit, ill-advised and ill-fated study of the Fade rifts. And this mage is one of them who has learned this dangerous arts."

Before Vell could say anything, Fiona had already grabbed her upper arm and gently tugged her toward the back of the tent, stepping in between the crossfire of the First Enchanter and the Inquisitor.

"Forgive me for saying, your worship, but that is preposterous," Fiona said.

"Bring them inside!" Vivienne shouted.

The flap of the tent opened and two Templars stepped inside, followed by a few faces that were familiar to Vell. Merin, the elf, had a blackened eye on the right side of his face, three men, and that cocky young blonde-haired bitch. Amongst them, was the frail and shivering form of Thelric. Behind them, two more Templars. And Taesas.

"We found them, hiding in an underground Grey Warden outpost a few miles from Ceraux," Vivienne said. "I need not remind you that the Grand Enchanter was once one of the Wardens."

The Inquisitor looked at the crowd that had now invaded his tent and glared at Fiona, caught in her own lie.

"They should all be jailed," the Seeker suggested, glaring and scowling the most out of any of them. "Once again, Inquisitor, the Grand Enchanter makes a mockery of your authority."

The Inquisitor held his hand up to quiet her, then looked back to Fiona. "I suspect you have an explanation for this, Grand Enchanter?"

Fiona looked over her shoulder at the mages, her mages, for a moment. She glanced at Vivienne, made sure to avoid the gaze of the Seeker, and turned back to Trevelyan.

"I wouldn't have survived if not for this new magic," Vell interjected, before the Grand Enchanter could try to explain herself. And Fiona didn't make any quick movement to cut her off. What could she say, caught red-handed? "The rift magic I learned from Thelric allowed me to rip the Veil and reveal the demon that had possessed the Dalish."

"See, Inquisitor?" Vivienne said. "The girl even admits it. She is recklessly using this new magic to shred the Veil and unchain demons. Such dangerous magic cannot be trusted or encouraged."

 _Shit,_ Vell thought. Perhaps mentioning ripping the Veil wasn't the best way to get out of trouble. Probably the last thing the Inquisitor wanted to hear after spending all day every day pointing his glowy hand at rifts and blasting them shut. Neither the Seeker nor the ex-Templar Commander looked pleased either.

Vell turned back, looking at Thelric swaying slightly side to side, no doubt trying to feel the current of the Veil. But it was Taesas' his arms crossed confidently over his chest that she noticed most. He was looking as smug as ever. And then it hit her.

Vell raised her hand, pointing at him. "He was the one who told me to tear the Veil."

Taesas rolled his eyes. "I would never suggest such recklessness, your worship."

"Maybe you should tell them about how the demon had control of your body and how the Keeper was fucking your brains out!"

"You disgrace yourself by speaking such slander," he said.

Fiona was trying to grab Vell's arm to restrain her, but she jerked out of the Grand Enchanter's grasp and charged a step toward him. "What about those wounds? That scar on your neck? And the burns on your palms. The burns that you got from breaking the blood magic bond Nethra had on you."

The Inquisitor was clearly confused. "Wait, Vivienne was your-"

Vell interrupted him too. "He was. He was after the staff too. I saved him from the demon," she turned her had back to stare down Tae and made sure to emphasize as she jammed her thumb into her chest.

" _Me. I_ defeated the demon with the rift magic," then she turned her finger, pointing it in his face. "He murdered the Keeper and took her staff and planned to bring it back here. But _he_ knows he'd be dead, or enslaved or worse without me."

Vell lifted her left hand and rolled her fingers into a fist as a plume of glowing, green fire wrapped around it. "So I gave him one of these, right to the stomach, and stole the staff from him."

"You see, Inquisitor?" Vivienne shouted again. "There is the proof. She wields the magic of the Breach, of the demons that spill out of the rifts, that you endeavor and struggle to close."

"Do not listen to her, your worship," Fiona followed, having regained her tongue. "Madam de Fer is the one deceiving you. I'm sure she did not tell you that she sent her agent to track this dangerous artifact."

"Nor did you," Vivienne reminded her.

"Because I have to combat with contemptuous fear-mongers sowing mistrust of magic into the ears of whoever will listen."

"I am only speaking the truth, that you and your ragtag collection of apostates are a threat! A threat that needs to be stopped before you add to the desolation that is already spreading across Thedas."

"ENOUGH!"

The Inquisitor's booming voice seemed to shake the ground under Vell's feet, so loud and commanding that she jumped. A jolt of anxiety shot up her spine as the tent fell silent and the Inquisitor glowered at both of the mages. He closed his eyes, rubbed his fingers along his eyebrows in frustration and took a deep breath.

"I am growing exceptionally tired of being lied to by mages," Trevelyan said. "The next mage to open his or her mouth without being addressed will be joining Magister Alexius in the dungeon of Skyhold. Do I make myself clear?"

Nobody said a word, as the Inquisitor intended. Vell didn't dare to open hers, having spent too much time locked up in cells throughout her life already. She wished Taesas would open his mouth, so that she could go to the dungeon, stand outside the bars of his cell, drop her pants, and piss on him.

"And now what I am to do with - one, two, three, four, five, six, seven - seven mages, seven mages accused of practicing this so-called rift magic?" Trevelyan asked. He pointed to Vell. "You. Tell me, truthfully, is it true?"

Vell swallowed nervously. "It's not dangerous," she started, then saw the immediate darkening on the Inquisitor's face signalling he didn't want any explanations or excuses. She stopped herself from trying to go on any further. "Yes, it's true."

She lowered her head. She didn't want to tell the truth. Fiona probably didn't want her to tell the truth. But she worried the most about Thelric. If the Inquisitor wanted to punish Vell, so be it. She had spent her whole life being punished for whatever everyone wanted to blame her for. That was nothing new. But Thelric, Thelric was barely coherent some days. The current of the Veil, it was the only thing she seemed capable of comprehending since Ceraux.

Trevelyan turned to his advisers. "Thoughts?"

The red-haired woman spoke for the first time, after looming in the back of the tent like a shadow, observing everything that occurred without being seen. She never seemed to look at anyone specifically, but Vell shivered again as her eyes passed over her, knowing that, somehow, the woman was seeing everything.

"We should use them," she said. "If they control a new power, unseen and unknown to anyone else, we should cultivate it. Turn them loose on the Venatori."

"Have you gone mad, Leliana?" Cassandra said, turning her head back toward the other woman. "Inquisitor, you cannot possibly consider condoning this type of magic."

Commander Cullen shifted uneasily, caught in between the two women. He wrung his hands together, looking at the captive mages before him, then frowned, then sighed.

"Inquisitor, you know I am wary of magic," Cullen began. "But I had vowed to myself to try to take a more… liberal approach to its practice.

"We are fighting a war. And, like it or not, mages are one of our most valuable tools in this fight," he said. "While I agree with Seeker Pentaghast and First Enchanter Vivienne about the potentially dangers of this magic, Sister Nightingale is also correct. A new weapon against the Red Templars or the Venatori could change the tide.

"With the oversight of a talented mage - a neutral party - and the oversight of a few trusted Templars, I would be advise a probationary trial, to gauge whether this 'rift magic' can be safely utilized, what it is capable of and whether it can be used in a responsible manner," Cullen said.

Trevelyan considered the options, placing his hand on his chin for a moment.

"My father taught me, that in a successful negotiation, all sides leave the table disappointed," he said. "That means you've struck a rounded deal, acceptable enough for everyone to agree and balanced enough that every side feels like they didn't get what they wanted out of it."

Trevelyan rubbed the stubble around his chin with his hand as he looked at all the parties, then wiped his hand across his face to try to scrub away the fatigue and frustration. Some of the soldiers around the camp had been chatting about the ruckus the Inquisition had caused during the ball at the palace, Vell overheard, so no doubt he had had enough of _Orlesian_ politicking for one night.

"Fiona, I will not arrest and jail your mages, despite your continuing deception and disregard for my orders. Although I am disappointed that you apparently still feel you cannot trust me or the Inquisition, I appreciate that you are at least using your resources for the greater good," Trevelyan said.

Fiona bowed her head, abashed. "Thank you, your worship. I promise I shall not squander your mercy."

"Leliana," Trevelyan said, turning to the red-haired woman. "I see the point you make. However, Cassandra is also correct that we cannot just unleash an unknown power into the world."

"Vivienne," the Inquisitor said with a frown. "I am disappointed that you, too, are apparently operating your mages behind my back. For someone who preaches in favor of the law and order the Circle provides, I am surprised that your agents are being utilized without my knowledge or that of my advisers. However, you were able to locate these missing mages and put a stop to the unsupervised education that was being conducted."

Vivienne, unlike Fiona, did not lower her head or look even the slightest bit ashamed. Inside, Vell guessed, she had to be stewing at the notion of being scolded. Vell wanted to see the Inquisitor bend her over his knee and spank her perfectly rounded ass until it stung red. Then do Tae, too.

"I find I agree with Commander Cullen's assessment," the Inquisitor said, giving a nod to his military leader. The golden-maned Templar placed his fist to his heart and gave a small bow of appreciation. "I want to see what these mages are capable of, but I want it to be done safely. They will be supervised by Solas and by Cullen or a trusted Templar appointee of his choosing.

"I will await their assessment of this new magic before making and further decisions," Trevelyan said. "And I expect _all_ of the mages to begin behaving themselves as long as they enjoy the security of _my_ banner."

Trevelyan gave a wave, dismissing all of them. They filed out of the tent, everyone moving out except for the Seeker, who stayed behind. Vell ducked under the flap, watching as the Grand Enchanter hustled up the line to speak to Merin.

Vell took the shaky hand of Thelric and gave it a squeeze as her other hand moved around in the air in front of her, feeling, her mouth slightly agape and her eyes following her fingertips as they moved through the darkness. She barely seemed to notice Vell was there at all.

"Together, together. Never against it. Never against it," she hummed to herself, licking her lips and reaching out and poking the air, as if she were touching the surface of water to watch the ripples it made.

Vell reached out, feeling for the Veil herself, picking up the subtle motion of the invisible waves as it moved around them. She picked up the current, a soft back and forth like a slow breeze. Vell stopped for a moment, lifting Thelric's hand as she fell into the current, swaying her body with the vibration of the ether.

As she moved, using her hand to guide Thelric, her teacher began to feel it too, her body falling into the motion. Thelric's hand squeezed into Vell's as she closed her eyes and let out a long, relaxed sigh. She rocked back and forth on her heels with the gentle lapping of the Veil.

"Yes. Yes, yes, yes," Thelric said, her body moving so fluidly that she might lift off the ground and float away into the sky at any moment. "Changed. My Pupil. My Pupil is changed."

Vell watched as Taesas passed by, casting a suspicious, sidelong glance at her, standing hand in hand, swaying gently back and forth with a crazy woman. His head snapped back around just as quickly as it had strayed as he turned in a different direction from the First Enchanter, who was being followed two steps behind by her entourage of Templars.

"Maybe," Vell said with a smile, as she turned to Thelric, whose eyes were still closed.

"I am Your Trainer?" The inflection in her voice rose to a question.

The Grand Enchanter turned, spotting the two of them, and quietly observed for a moment. Her eyes crossed with Vell's for a moment, she considered and smiled. With a little wave and an approving nod, the Grand Enchanter turned and went along her way without interrupting them.

Vell wasn't exactly sure what the feeling in her chest was. It might have been nausea, but she didn't feel like retching. It might have been dread, although the hairs on her neck weren't standing and she didn't feel the urge to bolt. It might have been pride, but she couldn't be sure, because no one had ever been proud of her before.

"Yes," Vell answered. "You are my trainer."

"Good. Good. Good, good, good," Thelric cooed and swallowed.

Vell closed her eyes, letting herself fall into the ebb and flow of the Veil, swirling on her heels in tandem with Thelric as they enjoyed the subtle manipulation of magic around them. She was in the middle of a war, in the shadow of an _Orlesian_ palace and had just come from getting halfway reamed by possibly the most powerful man in Thedas.

And somehow, she felt a momentary sense of calm, just floating on the crest of the Fade with a woman who had lost her mind.

Maybe it was because she had lost her mind, too.


	28. Chapter 28

**Twenty-eight**

Trevelyan lifted his left hand again, bending his fingers into his palm across the green, glowing slit.

There had never been a physical mark there, no rent flesh to feel. No pain, exception for the the wrenching that locked his entire arm when he made a connection to a rift to close it. Still, he couldn't help himself from treating it like a wound that needed babying.

"Does it hurt?" Cassandra asked, glancing up from where her head was rested on the right side of his chest like a pillow.

Her hand moved back and forth, her fingers lightly brushing over the darkening blue bruise on his ribcage. The harlequin had planted one metal-tipped boot into the soft spot in between the scale mail and plates of his armor.

"The Anchor or that bruise you're touching?" he asked, teasing.

Her hand recoiled sharply. She probably hadn't even realized he was hurt. The tent was dim. He had been trained as a warrior not to broadcast his injuries, no matter how minor or severe they were. She moved her hand, instead placing it flat across his abdomen. She turned her head slightly, planting a soft, apologetic kiss on his chest without answering.

"Not since Haven," he answered, looking at the swirl of white, black and green light that seemed to be imprinted on his flesh. "Thankfully."

That wasn't necessarily true. The rifts and the demons that spilled out of them were magnitudes more powerful than the ones he had encountered in Ferelden. The strain of battle, the power required to shut the rifts and the shock that pulsed through him as he cauterized the wounds of the Fade had all grown.

There had been a few times, just a few, that it felt as if his left arm was being jammed into a white-hot forge.

Solas had done what he could to stabilize the ancient, elven magic that cursed his flesh. He said there was little more he could do. Perhaps if he had Corypheus' orb, he might be able to reverse the Anchor. But obtaining such an item from the monstrous darkspawn would require toppling him, his allies and winning this war. A tall order, one that Trevelyan had no illusions would be accomplished so easily.

He much preferred this feeling, a quiet exhaustion that spread throughout his body after another grueling day and the warm touch of Cassandra's bare flesh upon his bare flesh. If there would come a day when they could lie like this, alone, in some remote cottage or villa somewhere far away from demons, nobles and magic, he hoped it would come sooner than later.

Cassandra's fingers began to fidget again, her index finger tracing a circle around his belly button as she lifted and shifted her head on his chest again. She stopped herself, folding her finger back into her hand, but then a moment later, placed it back down and began again.

Trevelyan snicked to himself as she stopped a second time.

"What?" she asked.

"You tell me," he said, bending his wrist and pointing down at her circling finger. "What's on your mind?"

She placed her hand flat, then tried to move it around to his hip, then pulled it back when he gave a soft grunt as she crossed over the bruise again, then tucked it away under the blanket.

"What do you intend to do about the mages?" she asked him.

He exhaled loudly, taking his left hand and running it back through his hair and then rested it underneath the pillow. Then he made a light, snorting chuckle. Then he sighed. Then chuckled again.

"What _can_ I do about them? I guarantee right now Fiona is probably snooping around to try to figure out Cullen is going to name to oversee the trial in hopes of sweetening him or her up, while Vivienne is probably plotting a way to sabotage the whole thing," he said.

No doubt both statements were true. Neither would be willing to just give the other side a fair chance. They'd been at each other's throats since the moment he returned from Redcliffe with the rebel mages in tow. He knew Vivienne wanted all of them clapped in irons and put straight into the dungeon, but that notion hadn't sounded like justice to him. Alexius belonged in the dungeon. The individual mages were not his enemies, despite Vivienne's protestations that they were.

It's not like he could have sent them all back to the Circle even if he wanted to. Furthermore, he wasn't precisely sure that even if he had that option, that it was the best option. The treatment of mages in the Circle was half of the reason Thedas was in crumbles at the moment. The status quo had failed, so restoring it likely wouldn't solve anything.

"You're the Inquisitor," Cassandra said. "If they disrespect your authority, they should be punished for it."

"I'm not a babysitter," Trevelyan quipped, "which is what they really need. And I'm not so cruel as to try to send some guard to arrest Vivienne. Unless you'd like the honor of trying?"

Cassandra was about to say something like, "If that is your will, Inquisitor," but she instead took the joke for what it was and said nothing instead. Her finger began to circle his navel again.

Tonight had been a mess of an encounter.

He knew that Fiona knew where her agent had gone, despite Cullen's failed attempts to find her. He knew that Fiona had been sneaking mages out of Skyhold after Leliana reported that small groups were disappearing from the muster without being assigned on an official post. He knew that they must have been testing out the Collective's magic on their own.

He knew that Vivienne was quietly hunting for the the missing rebels, too. He knew that Vivienne had sent her agent away from the Exalted Plains, because Iron Bull had sent that in an intelligence update. He knew that Vivienne had found the missing mages, because Ambassador Briala had told him first, as a token of goodwill toward the Inquisition.

He knew that both Fiona and Vivienne would be chasing the rumor of the ancient elven staff.

He knew because Leliana knew it first and he approved her leaking it to both sides.

He wanted to see which of them would try to act without the approval of him or his advisers. He wanted to see how many resources they would try to move without his knowledge. He wanted to see which side would prevail, if either.

And he wanted to see if either side suspected that he could play their petty games as well as they could.

Only Leliana was in on any of it. He would have to seek her out privately another day and get her assessment of his performance and the performance of both sides of the mages. No doubt, she would be pleased with the results.

He hated to deceive Cassandra like this, but intrigue was not only not her strongest suit, but not a suit she chose to play at all. Despite years of standing within the closest confidence of two Divines, she had always done what was asked of her without a question to the motives. It did not surprise him that when she had discovered the true nature of the Seekers of Truth that it rattled her so deeply. She did not have a mind for subterfuge.

"When the war is over," Cassandra began to ask, "Will you free the mages?"

"That's a decision the next Divine will have to make," Trevelyan answered almost immediately.

"But she will not make it without your input," Cassandra said, at least astute enough in politics to know the current weakness of the Chantry and the strength the Inquisition would wield in putting the world back together. "So what would you do?"

"I haven't decided," Trevelyan said. It was as honest an answer he could give. He knew what he wanted to do. He knew what he should do. He knew the arguments Vivienne and Fiona would both make. They were the same arguments that had been being made for hundreds of years of Chantry history, only with different actors making the arguments as they each rose, fell and were replaced.

The Loyalists were wrong. The Libertarians were wrong. The Aequitarians had been effectively useless for generations, failing to take a stance at all. Every compromise was as fatally flawed as it was hopelessly optimistic.

So long as demons remained a threat to mages, there could never be a truly workable solution.

Being asked to decide was to essentially be asked how he wanted to be judged by future historians for his well-intentioned by otherwise ineffective decree. And he hadn't decided whether he wanted to be called boldly but dangerously optimistic or devoutly yet rationally pessimistic ages after his death.

Cassandra's hand stopped circling and plopped flat onto his stomach again.

"What if, by some chance, I am named Divine?" Cassandra asked. "What should I do?"

There had been rumors that the remaining clerics of the Chantry, weak and disparate bands, were wildly tossing about names of successors. As the power of the Inquisition continued to grow, the rumors of the Right and Left hands of Divine Justinia as possible candidates had grown, too.

Vivienne had asked him his opinion on that matter recently, over tea on her balcony. She did not mention her own name, but he was patently aware that she was carefully fishing to see whether he might back her, if such an impossibility ever became a possibility. He had not encouraged that notion, telling her only the second best notion she wanted to hear - that Cassandra would be the better of the two.

Honestly, he preferred neither. He knew of only one soul with the Chantry he felt would be suited to the job; a kind, principled, charitable soul, a woman who exemplified the best of the Chant of Light to all its believers.

Sadly, he knew, because of it, Mother Giselle would never rise to the Sunburst Throne, even if it was his voice shouting loudest to place her there. She cared about people more than she cared about institution, and, therefore, the Chantry would never have her. The Chantry had broken into a thousand pieces, but it would never break so far to change that truth.

"You should do what you believe is right," Trevelyan said. "It's all any of us can do."

He left it at that. Knowing what was right and what was not in these days had become increasingly blurry. He had given Empress Celene her uncle's head. He had reconciled the Empress and her spymaster. His soldiers now held Duchess Florianne alive and he would be forced to decide her fate now, too.

He would do what was "right," such as it was.

And every morning, he would begin the day by reviewing the list of confirmed casualties delivered to him by Commander Cullen. He would read each of the names, sometimes a handful, sometimes so many they filled a sheet and spilled onto a second page. He sometimes recognized the names of their homes. He rarely ever recognized the names themselves. And yet, they all knew his name, and believed in his name, and laid their lives down for his name.

It was already so late now, hours into the night, past the pageantry and dancing and deceit of the Winter Palace, and many more hours burned just lying here in rest with Cassandra, that it would not be long before the Commander personally delivered the next day's list.

"If only it were that easy," Cassandra pouted.

"Says the woman who defied the Chantry to launch the Inquisition," he quipped.

She groaned at that thought again, as she did every time it came up in conversation. "I still wonder whether the next Divine will regard me as a hero or a villain."

"Well if the next Divine is you, that should make the choice easier," he said.

Cassandra chuckled at the notion then shuffled in the bed, sliding on top of him and resting on her chest, her face a few inches from his now. Trevelyan delighted in the feeling of her skin on his, even if her muscular frame slightly crushed him when she did it. He ran his hands down the sides of her chest, tracing the slight curve of her body until he rested his palms on her hips.

"If I'm Divine," she said, as her fingers cradled the sides of his face. "What will become of this? It would be… improper."

Trevelyan smiled, lifted his head off the pillow and planted a kiss on her before plopping back down to the bed. He laughed to himself. "That, too, is a decision the next Divine will have to make."

She scowled at his dismissive answer. "I'm being serious."

He couldn't help but chuckle again. "A minute ago it was 'by some chance' you're named Divine," he said. "Now you're talking like you have the nomination all but sewn up."

"I'm just…" she stumbled, as she did every time her insecurity flashed out. "I'm just thinking ahead."

"And I'm not," he said. "Not about the Inquisition. Not about the Chantry. Not about us, or the Divine or the mages. I'm thinking about right now. The world has gone so insane that planning more than a few minutes into the future seems to be wasted thinking. It doesn't seem like a day goes by without everything changing wildly from the day before."

Cassandra shook her head, halfway between an amused yet annoyed smile and a concerned and disapproving scowl. "That's _not_ very encouraging."

Trevelyan shrugged. "Sorry. I can't be inspirational _every_ moment of every day."

That legitimately made her smile and she bent down, kissing him again before resettling herself, snuggled into his chest. He tossed his head back, staring at the ceiling of the tent as he brushed his left hand across the top of her head as she closed her eyes and tried to rest.

Tomorrow was another day and he would plot his next move from there. They would return to Skyhold to regroup and resupply, and then, no doubt, he would need to travel far to the west into Orlais. The missing Grey Wardens would need to be addressed.

And the mages, he would rest easy if the Maker-damned mages all woke up tomorrow and had forgotten how to use their magic. That wasn't likely to happen, so it would certainly be another day of hearing about their squabbling. Grand Enchanter Fiona would keep her distance. Vivienne would be requesting him for brunch or tea or a quiet dinner daily.

Maybe Solas would be able to sort out the mess. Perhaps he should call on Dorian tomorrow, to ride ahead of the column with him and solicit his opinion. Or maybe he should just forget both, hook up with Varric, find the first inn on the return trip home and plow through as much ale as they could drink in a night.

He would send Cassandra and Fiona southwest, to Mont-de-glace, to follow the agents Cullen had sent to expose and dismantle a supposed red lyrium cult. He could send Blackwall and Cole ahead to the Western Approach, where he would need them later. He would send Vivienne with them, despite her disdain for both, to take her far away from Skyhold, far removed from being able to tamper with the mages.

With both of the mages' leaders hundreds of miles in the far-western wilds of Orlais, perhaps he could finally get a fair assessment of both sides.

Perhaps he could finally come closer to deciding which deserved his trust and support.

Perhaps he could finally get a little peace from their bickering.


	29. Chapter 29

**Twenty-nine**

The fat bag of gold coins jingled as it struck the ground.

The heads of the soldiers sitting around campfires, stock pots and tents all seemed to turn at once at the sound of gold on gold. Most of these men were peasants, Taesas reminded himself, as he looked upon the Inquisition's rabble. Although they wore uniforms, most could hardly be called soldiers. Despite the drilling of the few Templars, knights and chevaliers that strived to make them live up to the title, he doubted most were worth their weight.

Taesas pulled the thick overcoat off his shoulders, folded it, and placed it the ground next to the bag of gold. He grabbed the plain wooden pole around the inadequate cloth wrap he had wound around the shaft. He slipped his hand into the handles of the heavy wooden buckler, testing its weight on his forearm. He pushed the thin braids of hair from his temples back behind his pointed ears and craned his next to the right, stretching the tight, scarred flesh at his throat.

He looked at the fighters, their dim eyes all seemingly focused on the leather bag and not on him.

"The first man to draw blood on me takes the pot," Taesas said, loud enough that all of them could hear.

A quiet murmur. A shuffling. Men reaching for their swords and axes, with confident, foolish grins on their faces.

The first, the quickest of the men, charged from behind. His sword was easily caught on the shield, his leg easily swept with the pole, and his advance quickly stopped with two quick jabs from the other end of the staff into his ribs.

That gave the others a moment of pause, until they glanced at the purse of gold one more time, no doubt trying to count in their heads how much might be inside. Likely more than they'd ever held in their filthy, peasant hands before.

With greed on their minds instead of their better judgment, they charged.

* * *

The beads of sweat on his forehead were now chilled nearly to ice as he stepped under the portcullis of Skyhold again, wooden pole rested lightly against shoulder, shield hanging limply at his side, and the full purse of gold dangling from his belt.

They had tried, admirably, and failed. Taesas was glad when they stopped trying to come one at a time and decided they might fare better if they attacked from three or four sides at once. That had presented some of the challenge he had been seeking.

He hadn't need an overt display of magic, although the whispered incantations to bolster his stamina had allowed him to stay in the fight until the last man had finally conceded that winning the prize would be impossible. It was then that he scooped the bag of gold up, pulled his coat back on, and returned up the causeway to the keep without a word.

Taesas would have preferred more of a martial challenge, but finding such within the walls of Skyhold was not possible at the moment. With most of the experienced soldiers deployed throughout Orlais, many of the Templars already moving west to engage Venatori positions and Vivienne's express instructions to stay away from the rebel mages, the Inquisitor and his inner circle, there was little challenge to be had beyond stirring the swarms of the Inquisition's drones.

Such as it was, it was better than nothing, but barely. He hoped the rank and file had learned something. The healers, at least, would get the experience of mending bruised bodies and dented egos.

He crossed the lower bailey, glancing up to the balcony overlooking the main entrance to the keep, to find it empty, as it had been for multiple days. Despite good weather with a warm midday sun, Vivienne had recently kept herself locked away in her quarters.

Taesas passed the quiet buzz of conversation coming from the open windows of the Herald's Rest, ignoring the gathering place, glancing at the empty training dummies on the far side of the yard where Seeker Pentaghast might be normally found, if she had not been sent south on an assignment with Grand Enchanter Fiona, a company of soldiers and a detachment of her rebel mages.

The doors of the armory were open, the sound of banging metal and the heat of lit forges washing out into the bailey. He stepped inside, dropping the pole and the shield back onto the rack from which he had taken them and turned back out without sparing any of the smiths a second glance or a single word.

On the opposite side of the keep, down the hill and near the stables, he knew the rebels were in the midst of another day of supervised training in their ill-begotten magic. He could feel the vibrations moving through the ether, the rumbling disruption in the Fade that he had felt during the Mages Collective tampering. Each day, when he could feel the tremors in his sixth sense, he inwardly hoped that one of them might inadvertently sunder the Veil.

Let the demons take all of them, especially her.

Instead, he slowly ascended the stairs, tired muscles nagging him with each step, and navigating through the sheltered corridors of the keep, ignoring the visiting dignitaries, Inquisition agents and Chantry clingers-on that sat quietly chatting or going here and there. Perhaps there was information to be gained, if he cared to engage the few visiting Orlesians in the Game or, worse yet, humiliate the clueless Fereldan dog lords. But there was little to be gained in Skyhold, where the Inquisitor and his Inquisition seemed to have little care or understanding of the complexities of the Grand Game.

He might have liked to sit and share a glass of wine with Ambassador Montilyet, if given the opportunity, but there had been little time and little plausible reason for him to attempt to divert her from her duties.

Taesas slipped inside the door of the men's communal washroom, staying clear of the constant rotation of servants carrying in buckets of icy cold mountain water from below and the men who tended the hearths to heat the water.

"Enchanter," said an older elven servant, a central Orlesian accent in his voice, as he recognized the badge of the Circle upon Taesas' breast, "Please, right this way. We have an available space, for your use."

The small stall contained a wash basin of steaming water, a misshapen lump of soap, a mirror fogged over from the general humidity of the room, and what looked to be a clean towel folded and resting on a shelf. Taesas much would have preferred the shower in the First Enchanter quarters back in the tower of Montsimmard, but such luxuries were not to be had here high in the mountains in the ancient fortress of Skyhold, he knew, as he began to disrobe.

He had bathed daily since leaving the Tirashan, but every day he still felt as if he were covered in a thin layer of filth from the Dalish camp. As he dipped his hands into the basin of warm water, he could feel the slight burning sensation across his palms, where the flesh was still red and scarred from the damage he suffered tearing Nethra's cursed charm away from his body to break its hold upon him. Despite multiple attempts to heal the wounds, it was now apparent that they would never get appreciably better than they were now.

Nethra's blood, however; had washed away easily and stayed gone.

He couldn't say exactly what had taken a hold of him, aside from the exhilaration of her body going limp and motionless beneath him and the spray of her tainted blood across his arms and face as he watched her porcelain face shatter beneath the stone. The pain, the excruciating torment and willpower it had required to keep his fingers wrapped around the blood-slickened stone were a small price to sate that small, burning desire for revenge that he had tucked deep away many, many years ago but that had never been extinguished.

He wondered if Ishemaya would mourn her if he knew she was now gone to the void. He wondered if Ishemaya regretted all that she had wrought because of the cowardice of her own magic. He wondered if Ishemaya even suspected a little that he lived despite her efforts to destroy him for being a threat to her pathetic, savage ways.

Perhaps someday, he could hold her by the throat, too. He was curious, that, as he stared into her eyes, what would he see? Would he see recognition, a last moment of understanding of what she had done? Or would he only see fear and desperation as the last moment of life evaporated out of her?

If nothing else, the Keeper should be grateful that he never intended to step inside that haunted forest again, except to set fire to every last inch of it and watch as all of its taint was purged by fire.

He washed the sweat off his body, rubbed his hands through his hair and scrubbed his palms across his face before stepping away from the wash basin. He craned his head to the side, looking in the slightly foggy mirror at the red splotch at his throat. That too, was showing no signs of going away.

Taesas tied the long strands of hair into tight braids, patted the towel across his wet flesh and slipped back into his clothes. The mountain air of Skyhold felt chiller now across the dew left on his skin as he glanced around the garden, stepping down into the lush grass, moving toward the shrine and the acolyte that was tending it.

He stopped before the shrine and dropped one of the golden coins from his purse into the tithing dish. The clink of coin on coin got the sister's attention, nearly as easily as it had done for the rest of the peasants in the war camp below.

"Your blessing, sister," Taesas asked, taking a knee before her.

The woman, younger, Orlesian, green-eyed with finely shaped eyebrows, nodded and extended her hand over his head. She looked like she came from nobility. He wondered if her service was of her own devotion or by order of her father to cover up past indiscretion.

"In Andraste's name, I call upon the Maker to watch over His child and creation. Watch over his path, O Maker. Give him light in darkness," she said, her soft words and Val Royeaux accent washing upon him as she gave the blessing she had not doubt recited hundreds of times in recent days. "So let it be."

Taesas stood, brushing the grass of his knee and thanked her. As he turned, he noticed another woman nearby, crouched on knee before the statue of Andraste, saying her prayers. With nothing to do, and no one else in Skyhold he wanted to see, he turned and headed over to her.

"...one death, there is but one god, and He is our Maker. They are sinners, who have given their love to false gods," she recited, not noticing him as he came up behind her close enough to hear her quiet prayer.

He chimed in, as she began her next verse, one that he knew more personally than any other in the Chant.

"Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him," he said, the line that was the single, solid foundation upon which the Circle was built.

The woman, Templar, unclasped her hands and turned around. Her look of momentary surprise melted quickly into an admiring smile. Jolene Arleans had the same chocolate brown hair as her father, except without the streaks of white that ran vividly through his. Unlike Matteo, she had her mother's hazel eyes.

"Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world," he continued, reciting the rest of Trials 2, as he felt another pulse cross through the Fade and heard a light crack like thunder that reverberated from the lower yard up along the walls and into the sky. "Or beyond."

Jolene stood quickly, her fingers pushing brushing her hair back off her cheeks as she tried to adjust the clunky metal breastplate a little straighter. She bit her lip, before looking back up. Her left foot slid just slightly behind her right foot, her toe twisting slightly into the ground as she forced herself to clasp her hands behind her back.

"Enchanter Taesas," she said, the faintest bit of pink in her cheeks. "What a… what a pleasant surprise. I wasn't aware that you were still here."

He smiled and that melted her a little bit more, bringing out more of the pink in her cheeks. If her father were here, he might smack Taesas in the back of the head for toying with his daughter's infatuation like this.

"I might say the same. I expected that you would have gone west with your father," he said.

He was still slightly annoyed that Vivienne had managed to get Matteo sent to the other side of the world. He would have rather liked to push the older man across the yard. Matteo knew most of his tricks. Although he was slower than he had been in younger days, he was still a formidable opponent, one who could land a couple blows despite taking many more.

"I wanted to," she said quickly, almost excitedly, before swallowing down her enthusiasm and taking a breath. "But he left so quickly, there was no time for it to be cleared."

"Well, you must have impressed the right people, regardless," Taesas said, with another kindly smile. "They don't just let anyone inside the walls of Skyhold. You have to be important or, at least, born with a last name that makes you sound important."

There were half a dozen Orlesian nobles he could count sitting around the garden who had little to nothing to offer the Inquisition beyond empty platitudes, he knew. He hoped Ambassador Montilyet knew that too, or else she was wasting a large amount of her time treating with fools whose only claim to being noble was rapidly thinning blood.

The Arleans were a down on their luck family. In the past they had held some sizable lands in the Churneau area. But poor management, poor harvests and poor marriages had eroded much of that. Matteo and his daughter were a branch away from the main bloodline, with little claim to anything except a family coat of arms that could open the doors to the Chantry or, in exceptional cases, the Academie des Chevaliers.

She bit her lip for a moment, wrestling a decision, then made a choice to speak anyway. "Actually, I've been helping monitor the new magic tests," she said. "They're short for Templars, so just about everyone is helping."

He cocked his head at the idea, unaware of that fact. Jolene was just slightly past being an initiate, so the Inquisition must indeed be short on Templars if they were drafting her into notable service.

"I'd be interested to see what they're up to, if you would be willing to escort me," he said. Vivienne had told him not to meddle. But Vivienne had also told him to go chasing the Dalish in the Tirashan and he had a scarred neck and two scarred palms to show for it.

Jolene ducked her head again and bit her lip a little harder. "We're under strict orders not to let anyone near," she said. "I'm sorry, Enchanter Taesas, I would, for you, but…"

He held up his hand to stop her. "No need for explanation. I'm sure your father would have my head if I were responsible for getting you in trouble. It's good of you to follow your orders."

He had only half-heartedly suggested it, anyway. Jolene wasn't exactly the person he would want as his side if he were to go snooping on the rebel mages and their so-called rift magic. He doubted that she was a practiced liar and he wouldn't want to go through the trouble of lying for them both, if needed. And there were plenty of ramparts in Skyhold tall enough to get a good view of the yard without having to go anywhere noticeably close.

"Although," he said, a slightly mischievous smirk coming to his lips. "Your father is very far away and what he doesn't know won't kill him. Perhaps, if you're available, you'd like to dine with me tomorrow evening. Just the two of us."

She might have fainted, if she had not been pressing her lips together so tightly to try not to react. Her face, however, was now clearly rose, unable to hide the swell of excitement. "Yes!" she answered a bit too loudly, then restrained herself again. "I mean, of course. I'd love to."

"Wonderful," Taesas said with a smile. "I'll send someone to find you and give you the details. I'll be looking forward to it."

"Me too," she agreed, girlishly, rising on the balls of her feet and nearly falling toward him as he was already walking away. She turned around, her shoulders lifting high and then falling with one big exhale. Taesas chuckled to himself as he watched her right hand go up and smack her forehead, then both hands touching her face before he slipped through the open door into the corridor and out of sight.

The ground level of the tower was vacant, no one watching over the solitary table piled with books and trinkets and elven artifacts. The frescos on the walls were colorful, if not a bit plain and amateur. He ignored the pile of junk, not caring enough to poke through the apostate Solas' belongings, what few of them he had. There was little that could be learned from piles of rudimentary junk.

Instead, he slipped up the stairwell to the mezzanine overlooking the great hall. The sounds of quiet conversation echoed up the talls walls and around the ceiling, but the place was mostly deserted. Inquisitor Trevelyan had been in conference with his advisers most of the day, ducking quickly from his war room to the stairs leading up to his chambers and back, without diverting. Those hoping to sneak a word with him had mostly given up for the day.

As he stepped around the scaffold that still partially blocked the doorway, he spotted Vivienne, lying on the couch like a large cat, looking relaxed but always ready to pounce. She held a small book before her, turning a page just as he stepped within the reach of her claws.

She glanced up, noticed him, then looked back down to her book.

"I didn't send for you, Taesas," she said.

That was meant to push him away, to send him back down the stairs apologizing. Instead, he walked right through it, setting himself in the lavish armchair across from her couch.

Her long legs were stretched along the white cushions, her left hip gently rising like the summit of a rolling hill, diving back down into the valley of her midriff. All of it was covered in a long, black robe, still fitted perfect to her figure, but covered, from the long lace sleeves that went down her arms to the high collar that came almost up to her jaw. She wore no jewels today and the cosmetic around her eyes today was as dark as the rest of her garb.

The white and light pastel blue covering of the book in her hands was a sharp contrast, with its elaborate lace and floral design. In thin, gold script edged with black ink, he could read _Les Mots D'Amour_.

"I'm aware," Taesas said, reclining slightly in the chair. "It's almost as if you've been avoiding me."

"I am," she said, flatly, without looking up from her page.

"And here I expected you to summon me and say things like 'Perhaps I overestimated your talents, Taesas, darling,'" he said.

Vivienne didn't bite, slowly turning the page in her book without taking her eyes off it again. "You seem to have an adequate grasp of my disappointment," she said as a green light flashed outside the balcony, followed shortly after by a crack of thunder and the slight vibration shaking the floor. "And I am reminded of it every time that happens."

Taesas crossed his right leg on top of his left, resting his hands on his knee almost like Vivienne would when she was playing coy with him. "If you'll recall, I begged you not to send me."

"So you're suggesting you purposely let our enemies succeed as some petty disobedience against me?" Vivienne asked, her eyes still pasted on the book. "Perhaps you should seek out Fiona when she returns and ask if she needs more help."

He lifted an eyebrow, brushing off that slight for what it was. He wouldn't waste her time making excuses for what happened. That was done. It could not be corrected now, even if he wanted to.

"Why aren't you trying to put a stop to this?" he asked.

That was the real question, the sole reason he had walked into her den. He could accept Vivienne's own version of pettiness, ignoring him until she really needed something. But he couldn't abide sitting by idly while the rebels played their games with the Inquisitor's pet apostate and his Commander's chosen Templars. Vivienne was nothing else if not unflappably tenacious.

"Because Inquisitor Trevelyan is expecting me to," Vivienne said. "And even though his continuing sympathy for the imprudent rebels continues to chafe me, I would rather not let him think he is more cunning than he actually is."

Vivienne turned another page. "Besides, he is now sending me ahead to the Western Approach, so I will not be here to disrupt their thoughtless experimentation. I'm leaving tomorrow morning."

Taesas uncrossed his legs. "I was not aware you were deploying."

"As I intended," she said. Vivienne did lower her book slightly now, to glance just over the top of it at him, her lips pursed tightly and her eyes hard with that disappointment he expected to see. She then slipped back behind the pages just as quickly.

He hadn't quite expected that. Petty, yes. Vindictive, yes. But this, this was something slightly beyond. For once, he was short for words. Once, in years past, he had feared that some day Vivienne would cut ties with him when he was no longer useful. But that was when he had been young and inexperienced. Now, he could hardly fathom the idea.

"I didn't realize I had such limited value to you," he said.

"Don't be so melodramatic," she said instead. "If I was truly angry with you, we would not be having this conversation at all."

That, too, was unexpected. This wasn't normal. Something was amiss. He had watched her castigate those who had failed her, bringing them to tears. He had been privy to her fuming, to those rare moments when she took off all her masks until only Vivienne remained. She did not tolerate failure. Tolerance, she would say, would only breed a sense that failure was acceptable.

"I confess, I can't see what you're playing it," he admitted. Better to cut to the point, instead of spinning around it and listening to her casually shrug him off.

Vivienne closed her book, sweeping her legs to the floor as she sat up, placing the book of poems gently on the couch next to her. She folded her hands in her lap.

"The Inquisitor is free to send me away, because he's too dense to realize that I'm not the threat," Vivienne said. "This is not _my_ failure to correct."

Taesas understood that, even if he didn't believe he was hearing it.

"I've left instructions that you represent the Loyalists here in Skyhold in my stead," Vivienne said. "Whatever may or may not happen while I'm away, well, I can't be held responsible for that."

This was perhaps more wicked and more cruel than her shouting, or the sting of her hand across his cheek. It was a possibility he had calculated, however remote, but not one that he had expected. Instead of forgiving failure or mitigating it, she instead opted to double down on it, a second chance so loaded with peril that he might as well be a criminal dropped into the fighting pit with a ruthless gladiator.

She placed all the risk squarely atop his shoulders. Fail again, and she suffered no loss. Succeed, and she claimed all the benefit. With a second thought, Taesas now wondered why he hadn't placed more stock in the notion that she would do something like this. It all smacked of her vicious play in the Game.

And yet, he was not one to shrivel under the pressure of the challenge.

"I'm sorry to hear about Duke Bastien," Taesas said, taking at least some delight in the unstoppable wash of momentary grief that crossed her face unabated. "I know his death must be weighing heavily on you."

She scowled, although he couldn't be sure if it was in disapproval at him or sadness at the thought of her deceased patron. The word had spread quickly through the Orlesian nobility. He had heard rumor of it by the time he left Brevere's estate and confirmed it before their departure from the Winter Palace.

Try as she might, even Vivienne was not iron enough to hide that she was hurting.

"I appreciate your concern," Vivienne said.

It was, perhaps, the sole honest and truthful phrase she ever spoke to him.


	30. Chapter 30

**Thirty**

He laughed as he blocked the first blow, but never saw the kick that followed it.

Vell's foot caught his unprotected right side, driving into his ribs and knocking him clear off his feet. She pulled back tightly on the Veil, not wanting to seriously injure him. Still, he flew a good couple feet through the air before spilling into the dirt.

She lowered her foot slowly to the ground as she glanced at the Templar. He was biting his lip, as he did every time he heard one of the cracks of the rift magic. The elf next to him had his arms pulled behind his back, a blank look on his face, as he continued to observe.

From the dirt, Merin coughed as he held his side, pushing himself up into a sitting position. He leaned back a little bit, rubbing the dirt off the right side of his face. And he laughed again.

"I probably should have saw that one coming," he said, with a half-grimace, half-smile. "You know, it doesn't look like it, but I think I'm getting the hang of this."

He smiled at Vell, then playfully covered his face with his hands. "Don't hurt me."

Vell couldn't help but chuckle at his somewhat dopey humor as she offered a hand to help him back to his feet. He popped right back up, despite having hit the dirt hard like that three or four times this session. He was proving to be clever on attack and decent at defense at a range. But get up close to him and he was meat.

Merin, at least, was coming along well. That was more than Vell could say for the other four. She took some pleasure that all of the humans were struggling.

Malcolm, the red-headed, bearded mage from Ferelden, had flashes of inspiration. One second he could find the current, fall into it and work it. Then the next minute he would fall out of sync, and kind of wobble around, sweeping his arms back and forth like Thelric did and looking totally foolish. After a while, he'd curse, punch his fists together in frustration and throw magic into the ground to blow off the extra steam.

Jac, one of the few free-minded mages who had escaped the clutches of the Loyalists in Montsimmard, had no trouble finding the currents of the Veil. He said he felt like he could almost smell it, like rain on the wind. Manipulating it, however; had proven to be another story. After a few short weeks with Thelric, Vell had begun to be able to send her magic riding along the streams and crack like the tip of a whip. For whatever reason, he couldn't grasp the lesson.

Donal, the portly one from Cumberland, couldn't seem to manage either part. At first, Vell had wondered what Fiona ever saw in him, that was until he pulled a few spells by traditional means. The fireball that grew at the tip of his staff was so fierce that it burned almost white and when it detonated in the sky, it burst in a tightly controlled arc that would have scorched everything in front of it but nothing behind. She wondered if he was _too_ rooted in the normal to grasp the abnormal and, admittedly, scattered teachings of Thelric.

And then that blonde-haired bitch, Catlyn, from Ostwick. Vell wanted to hit her in the jaw. Again. She had dabbed the blood from the corner of her mouth with her fingertip like she was fixing her lipstick and laughed and given Vell that daring, challenging glance. It had caused her fingers to instinctively curl into a fist. She was catching on quickly and she knew it, having her pompous, prissy, noble-born bitch eyes set on running the show. If she was born in Orlais, she'd no doubt be fully _Orlesian._

Merin groaned as he stretched his arm above his head, rubbing his now-sore side. Vell hoped she didn't hurt him. Despite his chuckles and that kind of annoying, adoring smile he kept flashing her, she actually didn't mind being stuck with him all day.

"That will be enough for one day."

And that was one more person Vell didn't care for.

Solas's hands were clasped behind his back as he observed the fifth day of trials. He was looking at her, specifically, and something about his gaze still made her feel uneasy. He wasn't Circle. He wasn't Dalish. He was pure apostate. Neverminding that she had dreamed of going apostate and living free for all those years of her youth, he always talked like he knew _everything_. That didn't seem right.

His boyfriend, dressed up in his shiny fucking Templar armor, wasn't much better. Vell recognized Knight-Lieutenant Hugo d'Ghislain from White Spire, although she had never learned his name before. He always looked like he was scowling, or growling, like a hungry dog. He was too scraggly and ugly to be _Orlesian_. He must have come from nothing, because he walked around with his chest puffed out all the time like he was something.

The Inquisitor had promised his commander would appoint a fair-minded Templar. But Hugo acted like he was one of those that had Loyalists slobbering his balls all the time and liked it.

"More than enough," Hugo quipped, crossing his arms and spitting out of the side of his mouth.

Thelric closed her eyes, swaying side to side as the other stopped playing with her Veil, spinning around on one foot as she danced in the other direction, paying the recruits no mind at all. She was muttering something to herself, something Vell couldn't hear.

"Thank the Maker," Donal said as he rubbed his sleeve across his forehead and over the top of his bald head. He was sweating too much for whatever he had been doing.

"Vell," Solas said, as he began to turn toward the doorway back into Skyhold. "Please, come with me."

"The rest of you lot, to the mess hall, then back to your quarters for the night," Hugo barked, hacking again and spitting another clump of spit and phlegm onto the ground. Vell hated that while getting a chance to prove they were worth something to the Inquisition, they were also put under lock and key. The Commander had suggested that they be watched closely, to maintain the integrity of the test or some stupid bullshit like that.

Hugo was scowling at her, his dark, pig eyes, locked onto her again. She flipped her hair back and ran her finger across the six earrings in her left ear as she stared back at him. She pinched the top of her ear, right in that hard piece of cartilage. That's the spot. That's where she would stab the stud into her ear if she ever got the chance to add him to her collection.

"Good luck," Merin said, waving to Vell.

"Yeah, good luck," Catlyn adding, sarcastically, cocking her head to the side and smiling antagonistically as she brushed between Vell and Merin, tossing her long, silky blonde hair just in front of Vell's face. She even smelled good, somehow, despite another long day of training.

Then Donal passed, wiping his forehead, and the flowery smell disappeared in favor of sweat and body odor. Malcolm and Jac followed a few steps behind, tossing Vell a small, half-hearted, joking salute as they went, while arguing, again, about whether Orlais or Ferelden was the better nation; today the argument was over which nation had better facial hair.

She looked down at Thelric and Merin followed her eyes. "Don't worry. I'll get her. Go."

Vell jogged up the stairs, catching up to Solas. The elf still had his hands clasped behind his back, walking straight and slow like some kind of pompous Revered Mother touring the Circle. He was looking straight ahead, like he didn't even notice the late-evening sky turning shades of orange and pink and purple, the Inquisition soldiers pacing the walls or the way the flags fluttered in the breeze. It always seemed like he was off in some other world, only vaguely aware of reality.

"Tell me, what do you think of the trial so far?" Solas asked, without turning his head to look back at her, or, for that case, moving it at all.

 _Piss poor,_ Vell thought. She hadn't known exactly where the others were at in terms of their skill before they started. It turned out they were all pretty lousy, even Merin, who was by leaps the best of them.

What would an _Orlesian_ say right now? Something that was a tiny shred true surrounded by a heaping pile of bullshit. Or maybe just a flat out lie, she wasn't quite sure. It was hard to tell the difference sometimes.

"They're catching on," she said. That was partly true, right? It might take a couple more months to make them worth something, but they'd get there. Maybe. Maybe not Donal. And maybe not Catlyn, if Vell killed her first.

"That they are," Solas said. Was there a slight tone of amusement in his voice? They stepped inside the main hall, turning and going into the tower where Solas had his table of possessions. She looked around, not seeing that Staff of Fen'Harel she had busted her ass to find.

"What do _you_ think of the trial so far?" Vell turned the question on him. That's what he really meant when he asked it anyway. No one ever cared what she actually thought.

Solas seemed to approve of the question taking his hands out from behind his back, walked out and moved a crate into the open space in the room.

"I think it is unnecessary," Solas said. That's not exactly what Vell had anticipated. "What you do is not so different from the force magic mages might learn in the Circle."

He lifted his hand, pointing his palm at the crate. The first spell fired, a slight glow of white magic fluttering off his fingers as the air underneath the crate seemed to burst, tossing it into the air. His hand moved slightly, a second spell, the gravity changing as she watched the swirl of dust on the floor pull toward the center and the crate snatched out of the air, drawn back toward it. He flicked his hand again, a third spell, dampening the entire ring, slowing the box as it now seemed to casually float down until it rested in the same spot of the floor it had started.

Then Solas dropped his fingers down, as if he were casually flicking a switch, and she could feel the rush of magic as the fist of air punched down, smashing the crate flat.

He crossed floor, walking toward the broken crate and pushed it aside with his foot, dragging another into the same place.

"Is is also not so different than the elven magic that manipulates the Fade," he said.

Solas lifted his other hand now, a similar green glow and fire to it as that which Vell conjured. He pushed his palm forward, a greenish stone materializing from nothing that fired forward and exploded as it struck the crate, knocking it backward.

Vell could feel the way the Veil twisted as the magic detonated, the bits of magic pulling in, almost spiraling inward and smothering the box. She could feel a sudden weakness in her own legs, even though she was standing several yards away.

As had done with the force magic, Solas again swiped his fingers downward. Vell knew this feeling well, the feeling of the Veil moving, the current driving downward as it crushed that crate into splinters too, followed by that same choking, weakening feeling.

As he finished, Solas returned both of his hands behind his back, turning away from the splintered wooden crate.

"The method being taught by your instructor is unorthodox, but not dangerous. Cassandra was correct to be concerned about the manipulation that the Mages Collective had been using with the rift. The boundless power that exists on the other side of the Veil is too great for any mortal to control, even in small measures," he said.

Vell immediately recalled the blood-smeared barrier she had perceived from the ground and the effort Tae had put in just to merely hold it against the power that erupted out of the broken rift at Ceraux. She remembered watching Reynaud disintegrate to ash and the slaughter of the rift-borne demons as they mangled, molested and possessed the stunned Collective mages. She could almost feel the raking of demon claws across her back now.

She had touched that power herself, if only briefly, before Julion had died. She held the staff in her hands as Julion helped her make a single, thin connection to the rift. The overwhelming power that filled her as that bending green arc connected staff to rift nearly made her rigid with its current.

And now they were all dead. And Thelric. Thelric could never go back.

"So then, that's it?" Vell asked. "You'll shut us down?"

Solas crooked his head to the side as he considered the question. Vell got that shiver through her again as he eyes seemed to look straight through her.

"Once, there was an elven queen whose child had grown very sick and fallen into a slumber from which she could not awaken. The queen called all of the healers to her daughter's bed and none could treat her sickness. She prayed to all of the gods for mercy, but none answered her call. In desperation, she made an offering to Fen'Harel, begging him to save her child."

Vell would have rolled her eyes. He was preaching now, telling old stupid elven stories just like Ghi. Did any elf have any stories that happened in modern times and didn't involve fictitious gods?

"Fen'Harel answered her prayer, telling her of a plant that could cure the girl's sickness. The queen sent her best hunters to retrieve it. When they returned, they presented her with the unusual flower, one that had never been encountered before. Its stem was covered in thorns, but it petals were wide and colorful. It smelled honey-sweet, but its pollen irritated and burned their flesh.

"The healers advised the queen not to use it, not to trust Fen'Harel. But the queen ignored their warnings and had the plant brewed into a tonic and given her daughter. In three days time, the girl recovered and woke from her illness. She shouted for her mother, because when she woke, the girl was blind."

Solas paused there, considering Vell again. That didn't seem like it was supposed to be the end of the story. And it didn't make any damn sense either. What did that have to with her magic?

"Do you know what the queen did?" Solas asked.

"I don't know," Vell said, shrugging. "Probably was pissed off that she got tricked."

"Was she?" Solas asked rhetorically. "Would it surprise you that she gave thanks to Fen'Harel?"

"Yeah," Vell said. "He blinded that kid. Why would she thank him for that?"

"Fen'Harel only agreed to help save the queen's daughter. Did he not accomplish that?" Solas asked.

That sounded an awful lot like that one boring story Ghi had told her as they traveled. Something about a "slow arrow" or something. It had that same theme, though. That theme was Fen'Harel was an asshole.

"What do this have to do with me?" Vell asked, not wanting to ponder any more ancient elven parables. The ones she had heard all seemed to be grim, anyway. Why weren't there any stories like, girl meets boy, girl and boy fall in love, boy doesn't smash a Templar's face into a wall and get made Tranquil?

Why didn't _that_ story ever seem to exist?

"One cannot know the outcome of something unknown without trying it," Solas said. "And during desperate times, the risk that must be taken in the pursuit of benefit is necessary."

Vell touched her hand to her forehead in frustration. That wasn't going to work. Maybe he was stupider than he pretended to be. The entire reason they had to do this stupid "trial" was to try to figure out whether the rift magic could be trusted. If this idiot just shrugged the question off, there was no way the Templars, the Seeker or the Inquisitor was going to just let them go.

"So we're all fucked then," Vell said to herself.

"I don't believe I said-" Solas started before she interrupted.

"Look, if you can't say that we're not a threat, they're going to, they're going to do something to put a stop to us," Vell said.

"I did not say you were a threat. On the contrary, I believe I identified that the magic is not inherently dangerous," Solas said.

"But you just said we're a 'necessary risk,'" Vell said, feeling like she was talking in circles now.

"Yes," Solas said, calmly, agreeing with her. "Your magic is not a threat. It is a risk. I cannot say for certain whether encouraging further development of this technique will eventually be a benefit to the Inquisition. That, will be left to you to prove."

Vell had been trying to hold herself back, but she now rolled her eyes. Once again, this was the elven bullshit, the same as that _Orlesian_ bullshit. All of it was only true only in a narrow, specific interpretation. She needed to get far away from here. She needed to go the tavern, where she could get a drink to wash all of this nonsense out of her head and be around some people who said what they meant and meant what they said. Or, at least, when they were boasting their asses off, you could tell they were just making shit up.

"There's no way that Templar prick is going to agree with that," Vell said.

"He's already agreed," Solas said.

"That's impossible."

"The Knight-Lieutenant may appear gruff, but he is not unwise. It is true he does not see the same potential in you that I see, but he does see potential," Solas said. "We both agree that more intensive testing will be required. Testing that cannot occur in Skyhold.

"I've already spoken with Commander Cullen. The Inquisition is preparing to assault Adamant Fortress. I have persuaded him that it will be an ideal scenario to truly test your skills," Solas said.

So they were getting dragged into the war now. That, somehow, didn't seem like a victory. The others weren't ready to go into a real battle. _She_ wasn't even ready to go into that kind of battle. Sure, she had roasted Templars in White Spire, she barfed fire all over Haven and she incinerated Nethra's demon.

But that wasn't war. That was just her, on her own, doing what she needed to stay alive.

"We'll be ready," she said anyway, despite knowing it wasn't true.

"You misunderstand me," Solas said. "I'm interested to see what will happen when _your_ skills are put to the test. It's clear that you are different from the others."

"I've just had more practice," she lied. She didn't need to get into Ghi and all his blather about awakening and that thing she did when she separated her own shoulder in order to attack him. That had been something different from Thelric's lessons. She didn't understand how or exactly why, but Ghi had been right. Something changed after that moment.

"As you say," Solas said, accepting the lie, although she got another shiver through her as he smiled at her. "It will be days before Inquisitor Trevelyan completes his tasks in the Emerald Graves and the Commander marshals the forces to Adamant. I'd suggest you and the others get some rest and prepare for the journey."

Vell nodded, then turned and got away as quickly as she could. It was bad enough that Fiona was trying to mother her all the time. Now was this creepy apostate trying to father her? She used to have one of those too, and her real father had been just as worthless as her real mother. She wasn't looking for replacements.

She stepped back out onto the main steps, looking across the yard of Skyhold. The sun had dipped even further, the sky now a vibrant pink. The other mages would be waiting for her in the mess hall. The Templars, especially Hugo, would be expected her soon.

But she could hear music from the Herald's Rest and could smell charred meat.

They could come looking for her. Vell needed a drink, badly. Let them get pissed at her for breaking the rules and getting into trouble.

It would be insignificant, anyway, compared to the quickly deepening trouble she already found herself in.


	31. Chapter 31

**Thirty-one**

She spit in his face.

"You're pathetic, you fucking knife-ear."

She taunted as she lifted her legs up, spreading them open slowly, like a blooming flower, as she rubbed two fingers down her slickened slit.

Taesas wiped the spit off the bridge of his nose with the back of his hand as he stepped forward toward the edge of the bed, hovering over her. Her tongue ran across her lips, daring him. He bent down slightly, between her divided legs. And he cracked Catlyn across the mouth with the back of his hand.

She cried out as he drove the slap across her face, a mix of surprise of the sting of the blow and the excitement of being hit again.

"How dare you, you-"

He shut her up as he wrapped his hand around her throat and slammed himself back inside of her. She gritted her teeth and narrowed her eyes as she wrapped her hands around his forearm. Her legs closed around his hips, her heels resting on his lower back, pushing him down harder inside of her.

She bent her head back, his hand still firmly clasped around her neck and moaned, digging her nails into his arm as he felt her tighten all the muscles in her groin. She groaned with each deep thrust, pleasure, pain, hate, all wrapped into one.

Taesas could feel the tension building in his own groin, balancing just on the edge of orgasm, as he pulled out, taking his hand off her throat and into her blonde hair, dragging her off the corner of the bed as he tossed her down onto the floor. She caught herself on her hands and knees.

Before she could spout any more vitriol, he had his hand in her hair again, turning her head and forcing her mouth down onto his cock. He held underneath her chin with his other hand and he thrust roughly.

Her hands went flat against his thighs, trying to brace herself as he pushed himself in deep and she choked and gagged, tears running in black streaks of cosmetic across her cheeks as she drove her fingernails into his bare flesh again.

Taesas jammed himself deep into her mouth again in retaliation as he ejaculated, taking pleasure in how her cheeks ballooned and her tongue moved as she tried not to gag with his hands holding her firmly in place halfway down his shaft. He grunted, tightening the grip on her hair as he felt her try to pull back, before finally releasing his hold and tossing her off of him backward.

Catlyn rolled back on her feet, sitting on the floor as she turned her head and spit, twice, glaring daggers at him.

"Disgusting," she said as she probed herself again with her middle finger.

Then she smiled deviously, tossed her head to throw her hair back into place, glancing hungrily at his softening manhood. "Same time tomorrow?"

"No," he said, between labored breaths, both from the exertion of the very rough encounter and trying to recover from the exceptionally explosive orgasm. She didn't play like a timid noble. He turned and stepped across the room, retrieving the plain evening robe and beginning to step back into the garment.

She had sought him out. A pleasant coincidence. She wanted something. He needed something. The exchange was done. Any more fraternizing with her and she was likely to expose his plot when someone noticed she was missing.

"Maybe then I don't do your dirty work for you," she said, not moving from the floor as she continued to play with herself. Perhaps she wasn't yet satisfied? Taesas didn't care. He wasn't here to impress her.

"Maybe then I don't settle House Bresna's debt and your father ends up on the street like the disgraced drunkard he is," Taesas countered, copying her word choice. "Get dressed. And get out."

She did stand after that, walking around the room to collect her clothing. She picked up her robe. She retrieved her scandalous pair of undergarments. She wouldn't be wearing those again, as Taesas had ripped them off her with one powerful tug before he thrust himself into her from behind while he held her head pinned against the wall.

"You're a fucking animal," she said, which he couldn't tell whether she meant it as an insult or as a compliment through the lens of her appetite for aggressive, degrading sex.

"Get dressed and get out. Or I'll throw you out. Without your clothes," he repeated as he tied the belt around his waist and pushed his braids of hair behind each of his ears.

She laughed aloud, discarding her ripped undergarments back onto the floor as she began to slide the fanciful robe up her slender legs and over her body. She stopped before the mirror, roughly rubbing her cheeks with her thumb to wipe away the black streaks, and tossed her hair once more.

When she was satisfied with her appearance, she went toward the bedchamber door, looking back at him as she placed her hand on the handle.

"I'm going to come see you again," she said with that half-bloodthirsty smile again. "I happen to like breaking knife-ears until they know their place."

"Do what you've promised," Taesas said, "and perhaps next time we'll see how tough you are when I plug your _other_ hole."

Catlyn shivered with delight at the challenge, cracked the door open and slipped out, closing it silently behind her.

Taesas exhaled, exhausted, and plopped down onto the bed. As his hand fell over his heart, he could still feel it racing in his chest. He didn't care at all for her mouth. But he did care for shutting her mouth with his cock and showing her how little her noble surname meant to him.

He reclined onto the pillows, considering the chain of moves he would have to make to satisfy his end of the agreement.

Marquis Valon would pay anything to know who poisoned his eldest son. Meanwhile Baroness Anette Valon-Diende would pay anything to keep anyone from finding out that it was her, in an ill-thought-out scheme that her cadet-branch son might somehow be named as the Marquis' heir. She didn't have to resources to match the offer that the Marquis would make. In being exposed, her husband would quickly divorce her and plead clemency to his liege.

With Anette disgraced, her family, the Justiniques, would certainly be wroth with the Valons and seek to purchase wheat elsewhere. The only other reasonable alternative would be from the Ardennes, who would soon be pleased to make a suitable match for their second son Mathieu with Marjerie D'Targele. Convincing Martin Ardenne to hold out and broker a slightly more extortionate deal would be simple, once he knew that Taesas would make a point to keep an extra eye out for his first son and his amateurish womanizing he was doing during his studies at the university in Val Royeaux - in exchange for a slice of the profit.

That would be a start, to get enough gold to Ostwick to save Catlyn's idiot father from himself. The Marcher families were not nearly as cunning as Orlesians, so propping up his debts for a few months might be enough time for Catlyn to seize control of her family's dealing through the proxies she said she had back home. Were he so weak and foolish in the Empire, the other nobles would have smelled blood long ago and gorged themselves on his misfortune.

It would take some work, but it would be a small price to pay if Catlyn could deliver on what she had promised him.

* * *

The wind was stronger at the top of the tower, and chiller, as he leaned on the low wall, watching the mages practicing far below.

The spymaster had glanced up from her papers for a moment as he ascended the staircase into her lair, but did nothing to stop him as he stepped out the door to the walkway ringing the peak of the tower. If the Templars below noticed that he was perched in the sky observing, they made no indication of it.

He could feel the odd vibration that moved through the Fade every time one of them snapped off a bit of the rift magic. When the rainbow-haired rebel did it though, he felt it much stronger, almost like a sudden vacuum that sucked the air out of his lungs. It wasn't like the way the Templars could interrupt a spell, but the feeling was at least partway familiar.

Taesas tried not to pay her much mind, lest he make himself ill with disgust of her. Instead, he kept his eye mostly closely on Catlyn, tracking her golden head as she moved around the yard, worked spells, sparred with the others.

Vell was clearly the best of them. The other elf seemed to have the next best grasp of the art, from the fluidity in which he was able to summon and control the energy. Catlyn might have been the next best, but he couldn't particularly tell. Two of the men seemed to have spurts of success, but not with regularity. The fat one, at least, he could definitively say, was the worst of them.

If effort could be a gauge of future success, Catlyn was at least showing that she meant to make good on her side of the agreement.

By midday, as the sun settled high above Skyhold, he turned back inside, both hot from the sun and chilled by the wind. There was nothing more to see. There was nothing remarkable or shocking about what they were doing. In truth, it didn't look much different than groups of apprentices working with their mentors in the Circle.

Some would flourish. Others would flounder.

The magic, itself, would sort out who was who.

* * *

The servants were just finishing setting the table when Jolene stepped through the door at the top of the stairwell.

Taesas looked for a moment, wondering where Matteo's daughter had managed to procure a dress, a pastel yellow dress, at that, in Skyhold. When not on duty, Templars were typically wearing the uniforms of the Templars emblazoned with the flaming sword of Andraste, so that even while not armed and armored, everyone knew their position. Certainly they had and could wear their own garments at times, but he doubted that many of the female Templars had wardrobes that included dresses, at least not in the middle of the mountains in the middle of a war.

Wherever she had gotten it, it hadn't come from a noble's closet. The material was too plain, the dress itself was mostly unadorned, and the neckline was in between high and conservative and extremely low and provocative. A merchant family daughter might wear such a garment to market, nice enough to not be mistaken for peasantry, while poor enough to have to rely on a shorter hemline and a slightly revealing bust to perhaps entice a more well-off man to look twice.

Jolene's chocolate-colored hair had a slightly natural curl to it. She wore a jeweled pin on the left side of her head, a small yellow flower to match her dress with a small, colored gem at its center. Her shoulders looked too broad and thick for the dress and it clung to her body in the wrong ways. It was just too small, cut for a slightly shorter, slightly narrower woman. Around her neck, she wore her humble pendant in the shape of the Chantry sunburst, that she likely wore every day as a token of her faith.

The nervous way she pushed her hair back with a hand as she walked toward him screamed that she had tried her best to impress him. In truth, she was remarkably plain. But that was to be expected, having spent a life in service to the Chantry and not spent at court in Orlais. Had she lived a different life, under different prestige, she might have made suitable match.

"Jolene, your timing is perfect," Taesas said warmly as he stepped to greet her, taking her hand and planting a kiss upon her fingers. He pulled her closer, before she could know what he was doing, and planted a light kiss upon each cheek. As he pulled away, both of her cheeks were already rose.

He kept his hold on her fingers, pulling back and taking a moment to conspicuously review her up and down. "You look lovely," he said to flatter her, following immediately with a soft joke. "I must say, I'm not accustomed to seeing Templars attired so tastefully."

"Thank you," Jolene said. "I wasn't sure what to wear. It seemed like a special occasion to try something different. You… look very handsome, yourself."

She stumbled, awkwardly, as she tried to bandy her own compliment. She might have taken her hand and smacked it into her forehead, if he were not holding onto it.

She was this off-balance since the first moment her father had introduced her to him. The Chantry didn't enforce celibacy, but did encourage chastity. Taesas wondered if she struggled like this around other men, too.

She was like soft clay, available and willing to be molded into whatever Taesas wanted.

The question was, what did he need from her?

"Come," Taesas said, leading her toward the balcony overlooking the yard. The sun had already dipped below the walls of Skyhold to the west, but the sky was now streaked in oranges, pinks and purples of the sunset.

He had the servants move Vivienne's couch out as well as a table. Aside from the glow of sunset in the distance, the three candles on the table burning underneath the caquelons provided a soft light on the balcony. Taesas led her to the couch, before the table set with platters and the small silver pots.

He removed the cork from the bottle of white wine as Jolene looked over the spread with some confusion. He tipped the bottle, pouring the fresh Lydian vintage.

"I'm guessing from your expression you've never dined like this before," he said as he filled her glass halfway, then moved to his own.

"I never eat anything half as fancy," Jolene said.

Taesas chuckled, pulled the bottle away from his own glass and placing it back on the table. "This is actually quite casual, by Orlesian standards," he said. "I thought this would be a little more, fun, than the typical meal."

"It looks very intimidating," Jolene said, looking over the collection of plates and utensils.

" _Trois flammes,_ the three flames, is much simpler than it appears," Taesas said, lifting one of the long-stemmed forks from the table and pointing to the three dishes. "Each caquelon is warmed enough to heat its contents without burning. It's a very delicate balance, easy to mistake. In the first is a silky comte cheese. The second, red wine seasoned with pepper, garlic, onion and herbs. The third, chocolate. For the end of the meal. Or the beginning, if you're so inclined.

"Very easy. Bread is dipped into cheese. Meat into wine. Fruit into chocolate," Taesas explained, spearing a small cube of the bread, dipping it quickly and deftly into the pot, spinning it to quickly remove the excess dripping from the bit of bread.

"Go ahead, open your mouth," Taesas said. As her lips parted, he quickly swooped the bread over the table as not to drip, carefully slipped it into her mouth as he lips closed around the fork. He slowly slid it out between her pursed lips as she began to chew, her eyes lighting as she took in the rich flavor of the good cheese that had come in from Val Royeaux.

What he didn't tell her was that, unlike a more traditional dinner, the hands-on experience typically burned slowly like the flames of the candles beneath it, a playful meal conducive to a slow increase of tension. By the time the caquelon of chocolate was put to use, the meal typically devolved directly into foreplay.

The younger courtiers were the most susceptible to its simplistic charm. A playful tease to keep a bit of bread or fish just out of reach of their mouth. A slow withdrawal of the fork from between their lips. An "accidental" drip of chocolate down their chin that could be kissed away. It was almost too easy to get what he required like that.

And then he had been foolish enough to try it on Alycine. She was no blushing maiden and she didn't operate under any pretexts. In that set of circumstances, he soon found that it was she playing him.

He didn't object to being the object of her seduction.

In fact, he could never forget it.

"It's delicious," Jolene said, placing her hand over her mouth as she swallowed. A small bit of courtly training, that she would never need to use having taken her vows to the Chantry.

"Are you ready to begin then?" Taesas said, motioning to her set of forks. "Let me warn you, however, that is is tradition that if you lose your morsel in the pot, the punishment is to have to kiss your neighbor."

Jolene might have choked, if she hadn't already swallowed.

"I promise I won't tell your father, if you don't," Taesas said with a smile.

"Of course not, Master Taesas," she said, lifting her fork with a slight nervous tremor in her hand as she looked over the three pots and the plates of bread and meat at the ready.

He reached down, wrapping his hand around hers to steady it, and flashed her another gentle smile.

"Please, Jolene, call me Tae."

* * *

Taesas tipped the last of the wine from the second bottle into his glass as Jolene set her fork down in surrender.

Most of the platters were empty now and the candles had burned down enough that the delicate balance that kept the contents smooth and liquidic was failing. He had lit two more candles for the table, with the small bouncing flames the only source of light on the balcony now except for the stars and the slight orange glow from within the closed doors behind them.

Jolene's cheeks were now pink, not with embarrassment, but with a head that was spinning from too much wine. Once she had finished her first glass and started on the second, she lost the guarded nervousness and had become much more personable. He had made sure to keep from refilling her glass again, lest she end up bent over the balcony railing to vomit onto the front steps of the great hall.

"So tell me, Jolene," Taesas said as, against his better judgment, he dipped another piece of fish into the cooling caquelon of red wine. It had been an excellent catch, too good to go to waste even if it had been sitting for an hour now. "You're young. Educated. Fair. The Arleans family is not what it once was, but you could be a baroness. Why join the Templar Order?"

As they had dined - Jolene telling stories about her father and her childhood, Taesas sharing stories about the grand courts of Orlais and the intrigues he'd been tangled in - he had slowly been piecing together the picture of her and her life. It was not particularly different from the life of many bottom-end nobility in Orlais. But between her stories and years of friendship with Matteo, there was one link in all of it that was missing.

Matteo had never approved of her following in his footsteps.

"I've always wanted to serve the Chantry," she began to say.

"Jolene," Taesas interrupted. "I'm a very practiced liar. You're not."

She grinned a little, like a child caught in mischief. "Promise you won't tell papa?"

"We're not even sharing this meal together, remember?" Taesas said. "Besides, I'd hate for Matteo to find out how many pieces of food you lost off your fork."

For a short moment, he thought that perhaps she was dropping them into the pot on purpose, just for an excuse to plant another chaste kiss upon his cheek. He had done so, once, on purpose, so that he would have reason to bend and return a kiss to her cheek.

"Did you know I was conceived out of wedlock?" she asked as she flattened her napkin across her lap.

"I didn't," he admitted.

Odd, that he didn't know that. Matteo didn't play the Game. Then again, Taesas had little reason to play against him. He had learned of the Arleans, of Matteo's rise to his position in Montsimmard, of his strengths and weaknesses and his political opponents within the tower. But, now that he reconsidered it, Matteo didn't speak much of his family.

"Mama was a dancer, in a traveling troupe. They met in Val Royeaux when he was still an initiate," she explained. This part, he did know. "She became pregnant with me. She returned to Val Royeaux to find him, to tell him. They got married. I was born."

Taesas had never been clear on the timing of the events, but he had heard all of this before.

"And then papa took his vows," she said, looking down at her lap, suddenly doleful.

And there it was again, that missing link. "He went with your mother's blessing."

Jolene shook her head. "He did it _despite_ her objection."

That's not the way Matteo had told it. And Taesas had asked, long ago, because he was curious. When Matteo had his leave from the tower in the summers, he always returned to Val Royeaux and his family. He had been assigned to Montsimmard for years. There would certainly have been opportunities to be reassigned to the capital. Between White Spire and the Grand Cathedral and the lesser churches and chapels, there were hundreds of Templars serving in posts in Val Royeaux.

Matteo had merely spoken of Jeanetta's piety and that she accepted the burdens that came with his life of service. She might have come closer to him, if not for the shop she managed in the capital and was loathe to give up.

Or so he said. Perhaps Matteo was more of a liar than Taesas gave him credit for?

"He was assigned to a small church in Verchiel until I was six, before moving to the tower in Montsimmard. I barely saw him at all before he became Knight-Lieutenant and earned a longer leave. Even then, growing up, I would only see papa two months out of the year," Jolene said.

"It was a big sacrifice, for everyone, but I knew from a young age that I had to be a Templar, too," she said.

"It is a great responsibility to bear," Taesas said. "I am grateful that there are good, pious, whole-hearted people willing to make the sacrifice necessary to protect magi like myself."

Jolene placed her palm on his upper arm, her fingers steadied now by the wine she had drunk.

"You mistake me," she said, to his surprise. "I became a Templar to see what was so important that my father would choose it over me."

That, he had not expected.

And further, he did not expect as she moved, letting her napkin fall to the ground, as she lifted her knees to the cushions and knelt, leaning forward on all fours over his shoulder and kissed his neck. He craned his neck to the side, giving her a moment to press her lips his flesh.

"Now that I've told you my secret," she whispered to him, much more brazenly now, as fingers fiddled with the top button of his robe. "Tell me your secret. I hear that you are a philanderer, a womanizer, an intrepid lover. Is it true? I want you to show me."

Taesas could smell the scent of wine on her lips, even as she managed to work the first button deftly and slipped her hand inside the front of his robe across the crest of his collarbone. She planted her lips upon his neck again, maneuvering around and sliding her tongue under and just behind his ear as she crawled closer to him, her breasts pressing against his shoulder.

He had gotten what he wanted. He had gotten the piece of information that he could use to control her. He could wield it, subtly, against Matteo to color the decisions he might make in the future in Taesas's favor. Certainly there would be someone, somewhere, who might benefit from the knowledge that perhaps Jeanetta Arleans who ran the music shop in Val Royeaux might not be so happily wed to her husband. Then again, maybe someone had already discovered that long ago.

He had played Jolene's naive affection exactly as he wanted. He might have been able to get whatever he wanted from her by pulling that cord as he needed. Although he had no indication that she would seek more than chaste admiration from him, he always knew that he could get her right here, in this moment, doing exactly what she was doing.

Taesas could guide her by the hand back to his quarters. He could make sure not be seen, in order not to sully the sacred bond between Templar and mage that he sought to restore to its former status. He could slowly remove her clothes; he could kiss every inch of flesh revealed. He could let her work the buttons and ties of his clothing and allow her hands to go wherever they wished to go.

He could treat her like the innocent maid she more than likely was. He could slide down between her legs and use his tongue to please her, until he could feel the nervous, anxious stiffness melt out of her body. He could take her just the edge and then pull away, leaving her tingling. He could slowly slip inside of her as he looked into her eyes and could speak sweet words to her until she was relaxed and ready. He could lean forward and wrap her in his arms, hold her close to her body, and let her feel loved and needed until the deed was finished. Then he could hold her, kiss her lightly and speak sweet nothing to her until morning came and they parted forever.

He could do all of those things.

But he wouldn't.

Taesas reached up, wrapping his fingers lightly around her wrist and pulling it out from inside his robe as he slowly pushed her back from him and off his neck.

"It's true," Taesas said, as he took her hands in his as she looked down at them, a mix of confused, disappointed and embarrassed once again. "I am all of those things."

He bent his head down, to catch her gaze until she lifted her eyes to him.

"But I am more concerned about what you are. Like your father, I know you are kind, caring and good at heart. I have always trusted and believed in him, and I know I can place that same kind of trust in you," he said.

"As for me," he said. "I am not kind, nor caring, nor good at heart. And you'd be wiser not to place your trust in me. I am what I am in order to thrive in Orlais. I play the Grand Game, and I could not forgive myself if I corrupt you by making you play it with me."

She was quiet for a moment and sighed, perhaps realizing that her preconceived ideas for the evening were as foolish as they actually were.

"I understand," Jolene said, giving his hands a squeeze.

She didn't really understand. Few people understood the true gravity of the Game, and most who did only realized when all of its daggers were pointed at them.

"I am sorry for leading you on as I have," Taesas said. "That was wrong of me. Please, though, allow me to escort you back to your quarters. I'm afraid I allowed you to have too much wine."

He might be able to fulfil her foolish fantasy, one night of forbidden love with an mage and an elf, as he had many, many before her. But he could not guarantee that there would not some day be a price for her to pay for it.

And that price that he might have to pay for it was far too steep. If Matteo were ever to find that out, he could not be sure what his reaction might be. There was far too much to risk and little to gain.

In Orlais, dalliances could be had daily.

Friends were much harder to find.


	32. Chapter 32

**Thirty-two**

He marched at the front of the column, with his damn chin slightly raised as if the horizon before him was too inferior to look at directly.

Vell wasn't quite sure _how_ he had done it, except that he had done it.

One day before they set out from Skyhold and the Knight-Lieutenant's leg _somehow_ gets broken by accident. In the scramble to find a replacement, _somehow_ there are no senior Templars available to step up. At that moment, _somehow_ he inserts himself and convinces the Commander to allow him to oversee the mission.

Of course Taesas had been able to pull it off, Vell thought, turning her head and spitting along the roadside again. Every day they marched west, she stared at him out in front of the column, trying to figure out exactly how he had pulled it off. Whose strings was he pulling? And why hadn't Solas objected?

She still wasn't convinced that Catlyn's wild spell was as much of an accident as she played it off to be. There was no reason she needed to gather that much power around her in training. And there was no reason why she lost control of it to her right side, conveniently right in the direction of Knight-Lieutenant Hugo when he had his back turned speaking to a subordinate.

It hit him hard enough that the metal around his greaves bent. The crack of his shin bone was loud enough that everyone in the yard heard it. Vell turned her head just in time to see his leg wobble and bend in half as he fell to the ground.

Oh sure, Catlyn rushed over with her hands held over her mouth in shock, apologizing profusely. It was an accident, she claimed. She even began to work some healing magic on him to try to dull his pain while waiting for Solas to attend to the Templar. As the healers tied a splint around his leg to immobilize it and carried him away, Catlyn even managed to force a few tears out of the corners of her eyes.

Later that night, over dinner, she didn't look too busted up about it any more, Vell thought. Vell didn't object to seeing a Templar get what he deserved, but Hugo had at least been fair to them despite wearing that flaming sword of oppression on his chest. Even after Catlyn shattered his leg, he accepted her apology and still agreed to sign off on their mission to the Western Approach.

But Vell still couldn't figure out how Tae managed to gain the command, especially when she thought the instructions were that the Loyalists were not to interfere. Where did that rule go?

Off the fucking cliffs around Skyhold, apparently.

And yet, he kept his distance from the rift mages during the march. He hadn't spoken a single world to any of them directly. Instead, he marched ahead at the front of the column with the young Templar woman at his side. They talked and laughed as she stayed right at his heel, hanging on him every moment of the day. She might as well have just cupped his balls all day as they marched.

"There is no contest here, Malcolm," Jac protested loudly. "Orlesian cheese is far, far superior."

"Are you kidding me?" Malcolm objected. "A good, firm, robust Fereldan wheel, a knob of hot bread and a big tankard of ale. That's a recipe for a good night out at the pub, every time. I'd prefer not to eat a pile of jiggling goat cum from Orlais, thank you very much."

Jac groaned, tossing his head back and looking at the sky, pressing his palms together in front of him. "Andraste give me strength, lest I club this unlearned Fereldan dog upside his skull."

"Come on, Donal, you agree with me, right?" Malcolm asked, seeking support.

"I actually enjoy both," the bald-headed mage said.

Malcolm waved off the opinion of his fat colleague. "Of course you do. I swear, you'll eat anything."

"Orlesian cheese is much more refined," Catlyn chimed in.

"Yes. Thank you," Jac said, giving her an appreciative nod. "Finally, another sane person with taste."

Vell sped her pace a little bit before she got sucked into the conversation. She wondered what else Malcolm and Jac could argue about. They had gone over just about every difference between the two nations and agreed on none of them.

Malcom had _almost_ surrendered that Orlesian lace undergarments were sexier than Fereldan bear fur, until one of the Fereldan soldiers marching with them had overheard their argument and flashed her petite ass at Malcolm to restore his resolve. He was conspicuously missing that night and returned the next morning with a big smile and a new argument about why Fereldan women were superior to Orlesian women.

She strode past a few Templars, brushing her fingers across the six earrings in her left ear out of habit, until she came to the front of the column, falling in next to Tae opposite of his new Templar pet.

"-see Ghislain in autumn. The leaves upon the trees around the Duke's estate all change to such a vibrant red."

"It sounds lovely," the girl said, taking notice of Vell on the other side of Taesas, who hadn't turned his head to acknowledge Vell.

"We can continue this chat another time, Jolene, if you'll excuse me," he said kindly.

"Of course, Enchanter Taesas," the girl said and fell back into the column.

Taesas continued to look ahead, scanning the roadway, his chin still slightly lifted, continuing not to acknowledge Vell. She looked back at the brown dust caked on the bottom of the long white cape that dangled from his shoulders. No doubt he would get some servant to wash it for him before tomorrow's march.

He had obtained a new set of armor, too, since his last set was shredded at Ceraux. Just as rich and shiny as the last set, with some minor differences, if she remembered correctly. Lighter and thinner than what the Templars wore. She wondered where he had gotten _that_ from.

He was just as haughty as he had been on their way to Ceraux. She wondered if it tore him up inside to know that, once again, he was second fiddle to _her_ mission.

Vell glanced up at the patch of scarred flesh on the left side of his neck. She couldn't see his palms - one wrapped around his staff as he walked and the other curled closed at his side - but she guessed he still bore scars on both of those, too. She wished there was some way she could visualize how scarred his pride was.

"It's so nice that we get to travel together again," she mocked. "Did you miss me?"

He didn't dignify that with a response.

"I'm a little jealous of your little Templar friend," she continued, brushing her hand through her hair and tossing her head back. "And here I thought all those days you were watching me from the top of the tower were because you burned for me."

"I suppose it was too much to hope that you would take this assignment seriously," Taesas said instead.

"I'm hurt. I thought we had something special," Vell continued. "But I suppose it wasn't meant to be. There must be no time available with all the knob-bobbing you must be doing on Commander Cullen."

Taesas took the opportunity to snicker and smile at that ludicrous notion. "It must drive you mad, wondering how this all happened. It would be cruel of me to spoil it for you."

Vell remembered how good it felt to push her knuckles into his stomach and watch him fly through the air. She remembered how she smiled at hearing him crack against the trunk of the tree, before spinning the Staff of Fen' Harel once, tucking it under her arm and dashing away with it. Perhaps she would have to try it again, sooner than later.

"How are you planning to sabotage us?" she asked.

"Who said anything about sabotage?" Tae responded, grinning again. "I was entrusted to lead the rift mages during the assault on Adamant Fortress. From what I've seen, you'll all require my protection in order to survive."

"We're more than capable of protecting ourselves," she lied. She wasn't even sure she was capable of protecting herself in this kind of fight without being responsible for trying to keep others safe.

From the initial briefing they had received at Skyhold, assaulting the fortress would either mean going over the walls or going through them. Neither, she thought, would be easy. Especially not if the Orlesian Grey Wardens were defending them. Vell didn't know much as far as history, but even she knew that Wardens were brutal fighters. They had to be, considering what they were sworn to do.

And now they were the enemies of the Inquisition, apparently? Why did everything had to be so damned upside down?

"I suppose we'll find out soon enough," Tae said, returning his head to it's slightly tilted position then looked ahead as if she had vanished from sight again.

Vell stopped, allowing the column to pass her by until she fell back in place next to Merin. She crossed her arms over her chest, continuing to glare at the back of Tae's head, then turned her head and spit again.

What was he planning?

"Lover's quarrel?" Merin asked, pointing ahead.

Vell turned and focused her glare, twice as hot, at him now.

He put up his hands defensively. "Just a joke, just a joke. Don't hit me."

She shook her head, not in the mood.. Merin, perhaps not the wisest, wasn't willing to let it go without taking another crack at it.

"Good to know, though," he said. "Leaves the door open for another, if I might say, dashing, man to sweep you away in a whirlwind of romance and passion."

"You really do want to get hit today, don't you?" Vell said, offering him a green-flame-wreathed fist.

Merin cocked his head to the side. "Playing hard to get? I like it."

The elf tumbled off the road into the grass as the rift magic snapped at the quick flick of her wrist. She had warned him, after all.

There were a few quiet laughs from the rear of the column, as well as some hooting, and someone who shouted something at Merin she couldn't quite make out. A few short seconds later, he was back at her side, brushing a few blades of grass off the front of his robe and fixing the short-cropped hair atop his head.

"I don't do elves," she reminded him.

Merin chuckled. "Not yet, at least."

This time he caught her hand, blocking it with a little magic of his own as he brought the Veil up around him too. He raised an eyebrow and winked at her as the competing forces between the back of her hand and his open palm balanced and canceled one another.

Vell considered turning and bringing a hooking kick around that would knock him halfway back to Skyhold. Instead, she shook her head and pulled her hand back. Merin didn't lower his own hand, smartly expecting her to clock him when he lowered his defenses, until she tucked her hands back under her armpits.

"What's he up to?" Merin asked.

Tae hadn't turned around, not even at the snap of a little rift magic. How much willpower did it take for him not to acknowledge her and cast an admonishing scowl at her like a Templar would do? No, he seemed to be completely disinterested, which only made her more suspicious.

"Damned if I know."

* * *

Vell rubbed her eyes, scraping more sand out of them as the wind blew through camp again.

The Western Approach was a dusty bowl of shit. And hot too. Vell shook her head and flapped the collar of the thin shirt she was wearing. The sun had been down for a couple hours but it hadn't cooled at all.

"I can't believe you're still wearing that," Merin said as he drew another card from the pile and fluttered an eyebrow at her. He had given up on his robe about an hour ago, pulling his arms out and folding it down around his waist, leaving his chest bare. He was sweating.

Vell was sweating too. She could feel rivulets running down her neck, down her collarbone and across her chest. The shirt was sticky, which then made it scratchy as the sand clung to the dampness.

Most of the soldiers shed their armor, sitting around in sweat-soaked clothes. Many of the men, like Merin, had shed their shirts. Even some of the women traveling with the army had stripped down beyond what would be considered modest in the cities.

Catlyn was one of them, with her skirt hiked up far above her knees, her shirt gone and her breasts bulging from the black half-corset she wore, leaving her collar and midriff both exposed. There was a noticeable circle of men ringed around her as she tossed her curled blonde hair from side to side and sighed loudly in discomfort from the heat.

Despite Catlyn's innate bitchiness, Vell envied the woman for not only her bust but her freedom.

Even in the dark, Vell couldn't, wouldn't, expose her back.

"You're going to get hit again," Vell warned him over the top of her cards, placing a second Serpent card in her hand and discarding an unpaired Knight suit.

"That's not what I meant. I swear I'm not trying to get you undressed," Merin said, chuckling, as he discarded the card he just drew. "Unless you'd rather change the stakes of the game."

"One." Vell drew another Knight, now wishing she hadn't thrown the other one away. She was terrible at Wicked Grace. Angelo had wagered her out of her clothes on more than one occasion. Not that she had ever objected when he did it to her.

He always cheated, anyway. She let him. The faster she lost at cards, the faster she won.

"Can't say Catlyn is my type any way," he said, pointing a thumb over his shoulder back toward her without taking his eyes off his cards. He flicked his index finger against the pointed tip of his right ear. "I like a girl with pointed ears."

"Two… fuck!" Vell tossed down another Knight as she glanced at her shitty hand of two Serpents, a Dagger, a Song an Angel. She discarded it face down like the others. Another breeze of wind blew more sand toward her as she shook her head and closed her eyes. "I fucking hate this place."

Merin picked up the next card, smiled, and turn it around for her to see. The Angel of Death. He turned his other hand holding his five cards around, too.

"Four Songs of Summer," he said with a smirk.

Vell tossed her cards down. "I hate this game and I hate you."

"Oh, come on now, you know you…" he stopped mid-sentence as Vell narrowed her eyes into a glare, just waiting for him to finish that line. He swallowed, then smiled politely. "Nevermind that. I'll reshuffle."

Vell glanced around, wondering where Tae had gone off to. He hadn't initiated a single conversation with her the entire westward march. She had initiated a few with him, none of which turned out to be particularly civil. He didn't bite, no matter what kind of crude insult she tossed at him. That, in itself, seemed too suspicious.

Likewise, no one was paying them much mind. Sure, Catlyn was tossing her tits around and that had drawn a crowd, but that crowd didn't seem to include any shifty-eyed Templars. Jac and Malcolm were drinking somewhere, probably, but the fact that no one had dragged them back to their campsite by their ears was odd. And Vell and Merin sat playing cards without so much as sidelong glances from the other soldiers.

Everything was too _normal_.

Sure, there was a towering, black-walled fortress over that hill and the next hill with a bunch of Wardens sitting inside of it. Sure, there was sand blowing in everything and it was still so damned hot out. Sure, there were guards posted to make sure none of the spindly desert beasts _ate_ anyone who was sleeping too close to the edge of the camp.

Other than all that not-normal stuff, everything else seemed to be slightly too peaceful. Was that Tae's doing? Why wasn't he hovering over them wagging his finger and quoting the Chant of Light at them, saying something like, "Alas, my stomach is made ill by the repulsive scent of these unwashed heathens! Alas! Alas I say!"

Vell glanced around again, looking a second time at all the faces of the other people camping around them. That guy with the long beard. The guy with the short beard. The soldier with the dented helmet who was halfway drunk. The woman with the dirty blonde hair. The archer with his last two fingers missing on his left hand. The sweaty man. The slightly less sweaty man with a good jawline. The old man with the black headband who wouldn't stop scraping a whetstone on his blade even though it had be plenty sharp by now.

The cards snapped as Merin shuffled them, bridging the deck between his hands. He cut them, tossing chunks in between other chunks, and tilted his head.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she answered, looking at the sword-sharpening guy as he glanced up from his work and held her eye for a second, before he turned and went back to his work. "Nothing's wrong. And that bothers me."

Merin nodded his head. "That's always how it feels right before the Templars come in to toss the dormitory."

"Yes!" Vell said, her eyes lighting up. "Yes! That's exactly what it's like. You feel it too?"

Merin shrugged, cutting the deck in half once more as he flung five cards toward her lap, while pulling five for himself. He took a quick glance at them and folded them into his palm.

"Sure. You don't survive all those years in the Circle without getting familiar with your own sense of paranoia," he said. "Your draw."

"I'm not paranoid," Vell said as she picked up a card. A Knight. She had two in her hand already. Maybe her luck was turning around a little bit. She discarded her Serpent card, face up. "This is Tae. He's planning something."

"That sounds like the definition of paranoia to me." Vell reached down, grabbing his wrist as his fingers reached toward the discard pile. Had he been drawing tossed cards in the previous game?

"I don't trust him," Vell said simply, guiding his hand toward the draw pile. He didn't seem to mind being caught.

"I don't trust him either. He's the First Enchanter's lapdog. He's probably curled up at her feet right now, snoozing, hoping to get pet." Merin turned a Knight around so she could see it, then discarded it face up and grinned. Now what was _he_ planning? "What did you do to piss him off?"

Vell considered trying to draw his card off the discard pile now. If she quickly tossed one after it, maybe she could get away with it. Merin glanced down, eyeing the Knight he had tossed, then looking back up at her and grinning again. She drew the top card, a Song she didn't need, and placed it face down.

"Saved his life. Then punched him in the gut, stole the staff we were after and left him doubled over in the forest," Vell said. "Saw his cock too."

"Yeah… he doesn't seem like the type to let you get away with any of those," Merin turned another Knight around, discarding that one face up, too, to continue taunting her. He folded his cards into his palm again, then quipped. "I hope he's not bigger than me."

Vell held up her thumb and forefinger two inches apart in front of her left eye, peering through the narrow opening until Merin laughed. He held his two hands up about a foot apart and winked at her in return. Vell couldn't help but chuckle at that bragging notion, even as she shook her head.

Merin casually wiped the beads of sweat off of his eyebrows, then scratched his hand through his dark hair, which had grown out some since the first time she met him in the forest outside the Warden outpost.

If he were capable of growing some facial hair like a human, he might not be half-bad looking, Vell thought. But, like most elves, he was hairless and scrawny. And no matter how much he needled her with suggestion of interest, whether joking or not, he had pointy ears.

She didn't do elves.

Elves and humans birthed humans. Elves and elves only birthed more elves.

No child deserved to live the kind of life she had lived because they had pointy ears.

"What should we do about Tae?" she asked.

Merin shrugged. "Not much we can do."

"That's not very inspiring."

He shrugged again. "He's a talker, a schemer, a gamer. Me, I'm a doer. I let my actions speak for me. And I've made it this far without getting the sunburst."

Angelo was a doer too, and that didn't keep him out of trouble. Then again, Angelo was also a sneak and a hothead and a grudge-holder and a believer in justice in a place where there was no justice. He wasn't anything at all like Merin, except for being a wisecrack.

"And I think you're like me. You set a goal and then you're relentless in the pursuit." Merin said, motioning to the deck that it was her turn.

That didn't sound like her at all, she thought. She wasn't a leader. She wasn't driven. All she wanted was to be free, to run away and be free of her chains. The Templars had whipped the will to fight into her, but it wasn't the will to fight for something. It was only the will to fight to survive.

Or was it?

Here she was, sitting outside Adamant Fortress, preparing to storm the walls with the rest of the Inquisition tomorrow. If she and her companions could prove that their magic was worth something, maybe they wouldn't be thrown in Skyhold's dungeon, even though she knew she'd go down killing if anyone tried to put her back in irons.

Tae was fighting to protect his way of life, his precious Circle and his bitch master.

Maybe Vell wasn't just fighting for herself any more. Maybe she was fighting for Catlyn and Donal, Jac and Malcolm, and for Merin, too.

Whatever Tae was planning, maybe Merin was right. She wasn't _Orlesian._ She wouldn't be able to match his scheming. But she did know a few things about spotting and dodging trouble. And what could he possibly throw at her that she couldn't handle now?

The only thing she couldn't handle right now was this stupid card game.

"I just can't take how hot it is out here," Vell said, grabbing the bottom of her shirt and pulling up her stomach, clutching the cloth in her hand as she slowly pulled it up toward the center of her chest, just below her bustline.

Merin leaned forward a bit, watching intently. She grinned, inching it up a little higher until the bottom of her bandeau underneath began to show the tiny curve of the bottom of her barely-there breasts.

And then she felt Merin's hand around her other wrist, just as she began to lift the discarded Knight off the throwaway pile.

Merin smiled, still not taking his eyes off of her as he pushed the card out from between fingers.

"I believe that's cheating."


	33. Chapter 33

**Thirty-three**

The sketch was hastily drawn, but good enough to get an idea of what they were up against.

Taesas lifted the glass of wine, took a sip, and placed it back down on the table. The wall-lines, the gentle slope of the land, the tall towers, and the notes the scout had drawn about the possible defenses atop them, none of it looked particularly good.

"I don't like it," Taesas said.

"It's a tough break. The eastern walls are much softer."

Matteo lifted his glass now, taking a drink of his wine. Of all the bad luck Taesas had had recently, the one stroke of good luck was that he had been reunited with the Knight-Lieutenant. Beyond a bit of friendly companionship, he came with a full detachment of Inquisition soldiers.

The catch was that those soldiers came with the direction that they were to be used to capture Tower Six, as it had been labeled, secure a stretch of wall a hundred yards wide and then press inward and breach whatever interior gates they might reach.

The approach was low, long, and at least two other towers were tall enough to fire down on the field. Taesas much would have rather been able to follow the breach of the main gate where the Inquisitor would be, with the task of breaching said gate left up to the rank and file soldiers.

"Well, at least we have the rift mages," Taesas said sarcastically as he drained the rest of his cup and began refilling it.

"They should just be able to knock down the wall, right?" Matteo piled on.

"They'd be lucky if they could knock down a wall made of fragile twigs."

Nevermind the force that Vell had put behind the blow that lifted him off his feet in the Tirashan. The rest of them appeared to be useless. They'd be smarter to just stick to their Maker-given gifts and traditional manipulation of spells.

But he knew they'd charge in, recklessly, in an effort to prove themselves. That didn't bother him at all. If none of them survived, his problems were solved easily. Then he could line up their lifeless bodies, let the Inquisitor see them and get their mentally broken teacher locked up as she deserved.

Still, he needed to ensure that _he_ survived.

And nothing about the scouting report reassured him that he could accomplish that without fail. There would be Wardens. There would be demons. There would be the fortress itself, old, hard and difficult to master.

The artillery would all be focused at the south end to support the effort to breach the front door. The walls, despite being centuries old, were too tall and too thick to hope to punch through, even with a steady barrage. The only good way through, the commanders had decided, was through the front gate and over the top of the walls. Neither were the ideal way to assault a fortress.

Taesas wiped his forehead with his sleeve as another drop of sweat fell off his face and onto the charcoal lines on the page. He moved a few of the pieces on the table as he visualized the strategy.

"We're going to have to go this way," he said, pushing the small iron tokens further to the south.

Matteo lifted a finger from around the silver cup in his hand, pointing at the map. "If you do that, you're going to put us all in the range of that interior tower."

"I know," Taesas said, having seen that too. He didn't like it, either. "If we spread out too much, we'll get picked apart. And if we focus too far north, the Wardens will be able to pile this section of wall. That will allow them not only to repel us, but to also reinforce this corner tower."

Tower Seven sat at the very northwest edge, just before the Adamant fell off nearly into the abyss. Another group had the task of seizing that one. It would either be the easiest assignment or the most difficult, depending on how the Wardens played it.

And they both knew Matteo's daughter had been assigned to that assault team.

"This is a narrow section," Matteo said. "The ladders will be jammed in nearly side by side if we try to go over right underneath the tower. We'll be taking fire the entire way."

He was right, again. Once they got close enough to hoist the ladders, anyone going over the top would be not only in the line of fire from defenders at the top of the tower, but close enough that it would be hard for the archers to miss. These were Wardens. Their aim would be far truer than the average militia.

There would be no way they would miss. They would pick off the men carrying the ladders first. Any ladder that made it close enough to go up, they would snipe whatever soldier was unlucky enough to draw the duty of riding the top rung. There was no way they could reasonably rush that wall.

He folded his arms, standing back, looking silently at the map as he played through the scenarios in his head.

If he had a trebuchet, he could suppress the tower enough that they might be able to get the ladders up. It would still be bloody, but he was confident the men would at least would be able to get the siege ladders locked in. But he didn't have a trebuchet.

If he had twice as many men, he could disregard the losses and just overwhelm the fortifications with sheer numbers. He would lose more than a hundred men, but those that did survive would get the ladders up. Taesas was convinced that he, alone, was worth at least a dozen of the Inquisition soldiers, possibly twice that depending on how pathetically trained there were, once he got inside the fortress. But he didn't have twice the men.

If he had some good Circle mages, he would have enough firepower to hold down the tower. They could reasonably pummell the fortifications from afar with fire or spirit to keep the archers away. That would give the soldiers enough of a free run to make the objective. But he didn't have any Circle mages beyond himself.

All he had were six rift mages, six malcontents, five of which he knew nothing about except for what he had observed in the yard and none of that had been encouraging.

Vell was not trained. Vell was not disciplined. Vell was not trustworthy.

She was a wild animal. From what he had seen and what information his agents had gathered, she was only worth anything when moving forward. She preferred the ferocity of fire and wielded the darkness of Entropy, but knew nothing of the Creation of Spirit trees.

The others might know enough, but he couldn't be sure whether they had the prowess or focus to hold up if he leaned on them. The Veil was already weak here from the ages-old corruption and there would be demons afoot. All it would take would be one slip, one error, and he might have an abomination ravaging the Inquisition ranks before even getting within bowshot of the tower.

And although he needed to get his forces over the wall, he simultaneously needed to ensure the rift mages would all die in the assault, without it looking like he was purposely trying to get them all killed.

There was only one person Taesas could rely on to accomplish those goals.

"How much lyrium do you have with you, Matteo?"

"Three days supply," he said, patting the pouch at his hip.

The Templar glanced at the map as Taesas realigned the pieces, then slid them forward in three tight rows until the tokens touched the base of the pencil-drawn wall.

"I'm going to need much, much more than that," Taesas said.

* * *

To the south, the fiery projectiles from the catapults streaked in high arcs over the field until they smashed in a flash of flame and sparks highs into the air.

Adamant Fortress was alive with horns, the shouting of men, the whistling of arrows, the crash of stone on stone, the creaking of catapults being wound, the banging of swords on shields, the pounding of drums, the chanting of soldiers preparing themselves to meet the Maker tonight.

Taesas watched the black-feathered arrows fly over the wall and strike the sand dozens of yards in front of their position. The Wardens tested their range and Taesas looked at the warning markers no doubt as eagerly as the archers who fired them from the tower.

Their range was longer than he had anticipated and that would only make the coming charge that much more difficult.

He stepped forward ahead of his ranks, slowly stepping past the arrows plunged into the dirt, keeping his eyes skyward. His tightened his fingers around the grip of the round shield, raising it to his hip as he scanned the battlements.

He watched as another arrow loosed from the tower, tracing its arc through the sky. He raised the metal buckler as it whistled down out of the smoke-blackened sky, swiping the shield slightly away from his body as he deflected the shot. The archers not only had range, but at least one of them had accuracy.

He lifted the shield up to his shoulder as he retreated backward, watching for any other fire as he fell back before his troops. As he passed back behind the fallen arrows marking the end of the range, he lowered the shield and turned his back to Adamant.

"Those are good bows," Matteo commented, his closed-faced Templar helm tucked under his left arm and resting on his hip. His kite shield rested against his left leg, the point driven into the ground. His sword sat sheathed at his left hip. Even in the dark, the flaming sword of Andraste emblazoned across the center of breastplate seemed to sparkle.

"You knew they wouldn't make it easy on us," Taesas said, letting his shield slip out of his hand and fall to the ground. He unclipped the long, white cape from his shoulders, folding it into a tight square as he looked at the section of wall again.

"You're sure you up to the task?" Matteo asked.

Taesas tossed the folded cape onto the supply cart, next to the glowing blue vials lined up at the lip of the wagon.

"We're about to find out."

Taesas looked downfield at the dusty expanse between them and the black stone wall, ignoring the cacophony of noise from further north in the field, where the last assault team began to charge the wall in its quest to seize the seventh tower. Another volley of flaming stones from the south struck the fortress, shaking the ground beneath his feet.

He closed his eyes, exhaled, and opened himself to the Fade.

He felt the power rush inside of him, felt the flood pressing on the tenuous barrier between the physical world and the demon world, so weak that he could hear the whispers and wails of the creatures on the other side.

His staff swept across his body as he spun it backward, locking it under his right arm as he slowly extended his left arm in front of him, pulling the mana through his body, sending it up his arm and forcing it into his fingers.

He inhaled slowly, holding the energy in his hand, settling the wild currents of the Fade trying to burst wildly across the barrier. He exhaled and opened his eyes.

A pale blue light glowed around his hand as tendrils of frost snaked around his fingers, the white puff of steam as the cold reacted with the midnight heat that still sweltered the Western Approach. He curled his last two fingers and thumb in, pressing his middle and index finger together, focused his eyes down field, and began to paint.

He moved his fingers in slow strokes, watching as the walls of ice grew out of the dirt, stretching upward. He curled each back, bending the top edge each toward him just slightly to create a slight overhanging lip.

Taesas painted them in three rows, stretching them deeper and deeper down the field, several yards apart from each other. He could feel his elbow quake as he attempted to hold the spell. He ignored the beads of sweat that rolled down across his temples as he dared not blink and dared not sever his connection to the Fade.

By the time he drew the last wall upon their approach, the final barrier of ice tall enough to shield a man, his arm left arm flopped down to his side as he drove the speared point of his staff into the ground and steadied himself lest he fall into the dirt.

"Send them, Matteo," he said weakly as he reached forward, fingers fumbling as he grabbed the first lyrium potion from cart, knocking the cap off it and pressing the bottle to his lips, exhausted from the exertion of the concentrated spell as he closed the connection to the Fade.

To create one wall of ice was nothing. To create and hold twelve simultaneously, that was only the first feat he would require of himself before the day was won.

The Templar turned to face the ranks behind them, raising his voice to the soldiers.

"Soldiers of the Inquisition, prepare to storm the fortress!" Matteo boomed.

Taesas could feel the tingling rush through his blood as he choked down the bitter vial of lyrium. He felt the swirl of the Fade as the magical energy backflowed, filling in the empty places where had drawn it across the Veil.

"Place you trust in the man before you, in the man to the side of you, in the man behind you and within yourself! Our enemy is stalwart, but they are but men, wicked men who have sold themselves to the demons!"

Taesas emptied the vial, gagging as he swallowed the last of the thick philter, gasping for air as he tossed the empty bottle to the ground and held both his hands around his staff. He could feel the lyrium coursing through his body. He could feel his strength beginning to return. He could hear the singing, the quiet hum like music that sounded as if it were being played a thousand miles away on the other side of the Veil.

"Let the grace of the prophet Andraste into your heart! Let her love be the shield that protects you from harm! Let her justice be the force that steadies and guides your blade!"

He could feel his head swimming. As he blinked, everything before him seemed to be covered in a translucent haze, almost as if it none of it were there. He could see dark, indistinct shadows slithering before him.

"Now is the hour of our valor! Now is the hour of our bravery! Now is the hour of our victory! For glory! For Andraste! For the Inquisition!"

The soldiers bellowed a cheer as Matteo drew his blade, turning the point toward the walls of Adamant.

"Inquisition, CHARGE!"

Taesas felt a slight punch at his left shoulder as the malcontent Vell came to his side.

"Keep me alive," she said.

"Make sure you clear that tower, no matter the cost," he said as he pushed himself up from his staff, straightening again.

"Keep me alive and I'll get it done," she said confidently, punching her two fists together in front of her with a cocky nod as a small burst of green flame puffed between her knuckles.

With that, she bolted down the field, the first of the Inquisition soldiers to pass into the no man's land as the rest of the Inquisition forces flowed behind her.

The soldiers streamed past, heading down toward the ice wall barriers until no one stood beyond the range of the archers but Taesas and Matteo. The Templar gave him a curt nod.

"I'll ward off the demons, as best as I am able."

Matteo dropped his winged helm over his head, slid his shield onto his left arm and went down to one knee at Tae's side, driving the point of his sword into the ground. Around him, a warding ring of white light surrounding the two men.

Taesas blinked hard, shaking off the fog of the lyrium and opened himself to the Fade once more, wider than before as he raised his staff over his head toward the sky as the first volley of arrows lifted from the walls of Adamant.

He processed the patterns in a hurry, his eyes flickering back and forth at the wall of soldiers rushing forward, picking out the mages first, then settling across whoever else he could see as quickly as he could see them at the front of the charge.

The arrows crested the sky and turned downward as he swept the staff down, throwing the aura of protective Creation magic forward. The yellow light wrapped itself around Vell and several other soldiers as the black arrows fell from the sky.

Some deflected as they were turned aside by the magic Taesas bestowed upon them. Some were caught in shields as the soldiers stopped, fell to a knee and drew their shields over their bodies. And some struck true, driving down through helmets, armor and flesh of those unlucky Inquisition soldiers whom he could not protect.

He could feel the breath almost sucked from his chest from the strain of a dozen arrows hitting a dozen targets under his protection, an intense tug through his body as the spell yanked the mana out of him. He grunted as he pulled back on the spell, like reining in an unruly horse, to try to hold it.

To protect one man from the sting of an arrow was nothing. To protect and hold a spell across as many men in the army as he could reach simultaneously, that was only the second feat he would require of himself before the day was won.

The second volley of arrows cut the sky as he widened his stance, pushing his mana further downfield across the lucky few under the grace of his spell. He attempted to readjust, stretching the protection to those men carrying the corners of the long ladders, the crucial payload of the assault.

As the second wave of missiles fell, each felt like a kick to his lungs, one after another after another until he could hold the spell no longer until it crackled and fizzled as the soldiers slid in behind the first cropping of icewalls.

He huffed, grabbing the second vial of lyrium and pressing the bottle to his lips as he tried to calm his breathing through his nose. He watched the ladder of the left column hit the dirt as one of its carriers fell with an arrow through his chest, until the next man behind him grabbed the wood from the dirt, hoisted it, and rushed ahead with the others.

He could see the rainbow-colored head of Vell behind the center-column icewall, spinning her arm in a wide wheel and shouting at the laggers to fall in behind the cover. The third volley of arrows went up from the walls.

She stepped back, out of the protection of the overhang, set her feet, pulled her right arm behind her body, then thrust it forward.

Taesas could barely see the green light at the edges of the wall of force as it first fired up and over her head, until it struck the arrows in flight, sending them scattering like sticks with a puff of green smoke as the lurching curtain of the Veil passed through them.

The soldiers flooded around the sides of the first set of icewalls, scrambling toward the second set of barriers in the interim between the shots of the Wardens within Adamant. He pulled the empty bottle of lyrium from his lip and tossed it into the dirt as he watched scattered arrows bending down from the tower as the defenders abandoned volley-firing to fire at will.

He grabbed the third potion, gulping it down, knowing the soldiers would have to fend for themselves. He raised his staff, finding the rabid animal Vell down the field and wrapped her alone in the protective aura as she darted across the field toward the next barrier, ducking under arrows that whizzed around her.

Taesas eyed the bodies lying in the red sand, all of them appearing to be armored soldiers. He couldn't pick out the other mages in the advance, but he hoped none of them had fallen. They all needed to die, but not yet.

He closed his eyes, choking, a pulse of blue-lyrium spittle leaking out of the corner of his mouth as he emptied the vial and tossed it aside, preparing for the final challenge of the day. As he opened them, once more he saw nothing but the blurred edges of Adamant and the shadows moving around it.

Taesas could see the the ripples in the Veil, the way they moved and swirled like a haze of heat just before his eyes. He could see the way those current twisted, bent around Vell at the front of the column as she ducked behind another vibrant, shining wall of magical ice that stood in clear, crisp focus through his blurred vision.

"The Veil is growing very weak,," Matteo said from the kneeling position next to him. "The demons feel your presence strongly now."

He could feel it too, the tenuous curtain growing even more flimsy around him. Filled with lyrium, he almost felt as if he could meld through it now, like slowly slipping under the surface of a warm, tranquil lake. The distant strumming seemed louder now, so sweet and inviting inside his head as the lyrium swirled through his blood.

He was forever connected to this place, to the arcane, to the power, to the beyond. Years of training and discipline told him to deny it, to never fall into that sucking temptation. Yet with the Veil so thin and the power beyond it so strong, so infinite, would it be so wrong to bask within it?

"Taesas!" The shout snapped him from his stupor. "You have to do it now!"

He blinked, seeing the dusty orange sand, the figures of soldiers scurrying across the field, the blue and white flags of the Wardens still snapping above the fortress and the black arrows that pierced the sky.

The soldiers were moving out of the last set of barriers, into the final stretch between their cover and the walls. The ladders, hoisted to the hips of the men who carried them, began to move as they stepped out of the protection.

Taesas began to summon the Creation magic to himself once again as the small groups charged ahead. Six men on each ladder, each with one mage trailing behind them. He stretched across the Veil once more, filling himself with mana.

As they moved, he grunted at the strain of spreading the protective spell across such a great distance and across so many people at once. He had never conjured a spell this demanding before, and never to try to sustain it for so long.

He watched the first arrow bounce off one of the ladder-holders as if it has struck a stone wall, and felt the pang as it drained the mana through him.

He watched as the assault party ran, his arms shaking as each arrow deflected off their bodies sapped more and more from him. Taesas gritted his teeth, his mind wandering ever so slightly to the two remaining bottles of lyrium at his side. He needed them, needed them so badly, but to break the spell would certainly mean the death of most, if not all of them.

The air before him seemed to grow darker, thinner, colder as he could feel the Veil weakening more and more. He could see the shadows circling him now, he could almost feel brush of long, wicked fingers raking across his body as they seemed to whip around him in a cyclone.

The soldiers came to the foot of the wall, the ladders dropped to the ground. He forced his left shoulder to move, although it ground and creaked like a long-rusted door as he did. He carefully divided his thought, pushing the Creation energy to his right side as he pulled the Spirit spell into his left.

And through the weakened Veil, the first shadow melded through, long and wiry and black and smoking as the Shade came across.

Matteo's silver sword flashed through the air as he cut it down, driving a second, hard thrust through the demon as the curtain of the Veil faltered and fell.

"It's not going to hold!"

"Just… a little longer," Taesas grunted, twisting his left wrist around as he watched the three mages grab hold of the top rungs of the ladders. The soldiers scurried toward the base, their feet driving into the dirt as they heaved, pulling, until the ladders began to pivot and rise toward the wall.

And he snapped his fingers closed, encasing the rift mages riding atop the ladders in the hazy blue bubbled forefields.

As the spell engaged, he felt a pain, almost like a stabbing in his heart, that struck him nowhere physical but seemed to reverberate through him. The mana, now flowing in wildly, uneven torrents as the Veil collapsed, sputtered and died across the right side of his body as the protective aura fell.

The first arrow struck, piercing one of the soldiers through the neck. As the man crumpled and fell at the base of the ladder, it wobbled and teetered as the Wardens ignored the invulnerable riders and turned their bows down to the ground.

Matteo cut down a second shade as it fell through the tear in the Veil. Taesas fell to a knee, holding desperately to the last clutch of mana, lest he lose the forcefields. The Inquisition soldiers hoisting the ladders were cut apart by arrows.

But it was too late for the Wardens.

The ladders passed the vertical midpoint, tipping down and falling fast toward the wall. The right-most ladder, closest to the tower, fell the fastest as the last of the soldiers around its legs fell pierced by arrows.

Taesas tracked their descent, holding, waiting.

Matteo grunted as a shade raked across the side of his helmet, before smashing it back with his shield and driving his blade through the monster.

The first ladder hit the wall, the metal hooks bouncing forward and locking over the parapet, holding it in place. The second hit a second later and the third a moment after.

All three ladders were up. All three of their riders, arms braced around the top rung, encased in a shielded bubble, were still there. All three were still alive.

His body shook as blue-laced foam and vomit spilled out of the side of his mouth between gritted teeth.

To wrap one man in a forcefield, safe from danger, was nothing. To protect three and sustain them against a barrage of fire, that was the third feat he required of himself.

Taesas released his hold on the spell as he crumpled down into the dust.


	34. Chapter 34

**Thirty-four**

Vell wrapped her arms around the top rung of the ladder and threaded her fingers together when her entire body froze rigid.

It was strange, she thought, feeling so powerless as the forcefield encircled her. There was nothing that could touch her. Yet the magic paralyzed her to the point where she couldn't even blink.

The ladder began to rise slowly, lifting her into the air over Adamant. Everything was silent, peaceful almost, as she floated through the air. At first she could see the stone walls and the arrows that bounced harmlessly off Tae's spell. As the ladder rose higher, she could see the night sky, then the black, corrupted, cleft in the landscape behind the fortress.

Then everything began to fall forward, quickly, as her field of vision swept back down over the fort and the blue-and-white garbed Wardens on the walls. She should have been able to feel the wind as the ladder hurtled downward. But encased in the spell, the only way she knew she was moving at all was because the parapeted wall grew closer and closer.

She didn't feel the impact when the ladder crashed into the wall. She didn't hear the metal hooks spin and clank down over the edge of the wall. She couldn't hear any of the yelling as the Wardens prepared for their walls to be crested.

And then the bubble burst, and it was like the universe caught up to her in one instant.

Vell's feet pressed down, pushing her up to the top rung as she leapt high off the top of the ladder into the air above Adamant, looking at the Wardens below her ready to kill her. Tae had done his part.

Now it was her turn.

She pulled her magic to her right shoulder, drawing the power back into her clenched fist as she descended. With a twist of her body, she drove herself down, slamming her green-wreathed fist into the ground as she landed.

The Veil pushed outward in a shockwave, throwing the Wardens backward away from her as her feet hit the ground, her body going to one knee as she drove the strike into the stone.

It was a tingle, of excitement, danger, dread, that pulsed through her as she felt the spell ring around her. She turned her head, looking at the tower to her right side, knowing that she had to get there. The white-veiled barrier formed in front of her, just as the volley of arrows sprayed down from the narrow slits in the tower. They struck and fell as Vell regained her feet.

Jac twisted his staff, dropping the barrier as he worked his staff, throwing three bolts of spirit energy around her, striking a charging Warden holding a hand axe. He placed his left hand to his forehead as he spun backward, white light shining as he summoned the repulsion field around him. The Orlesian twisted, switching his staff to his other hand as he spun, extending his now-empty right hand toward her as he wrapped the haste spell around her.

Behind him, Malcolm bent back on his rear leg, his back turned toward the tower, as he sprayed fire down the narrow rampart, holding the Wardens beyond at bay.

"Make sure the others make it up, then charge the tower!" she shouted at Jac.

Merin had insisted that he be one of the first three up along with her, but Vell rejected it. Jac was the best defensive mage they had. Sending Malcolm with him would ensure that they'd both be at their best, because both would rather die before letting the other one see them humbled.

Merin, Catlyn and Donal were all harder hitters, anyway. They just needed a foothold, then the others and the Inquisition soldiers could do the bloody work.

"I'll get it done," Jac promised with a nod. "Good luck."

She trusted him to get it done.

Vell turned toward the tower as the black, miasmic fog began to roll off her body. She shook out her hands, tossing away the slight tremble in her fingers as she looked at the Warden defenders in their blue and white tabards. The tower before here was veiled in shadow, except for the bright burning torches that stuck like thorns from its crown.

She pressed her toe into the ground and charged.

" _This is a high block," Angelo explained as he slowly crossed his arms over his chest, then slowly moved his left arm up, his forearm horizontal as he raised it before his face. "Use it to block a strike that is coming over your head. If you time it correctly, you can even deflect a punch coming toward your face."_

 _His fingers were always warm when he wrapped them around her wrists to guide her, to show her the proper way._

The move was ingrained in her muscle memory now from those years ago, from the repetition of the motion every morning as the sun crept into the sky. As the Warden's sword swung over his right shoulder, she saw the strike as if she had seen it a thousand times before.

Vell pull the Veil around her as she thrust her arm up and out, the magical curtain whipping up and deflecting the strike with a loud snap as it threw the blade backward. The Warden stumbled at the impact, his feet tangling as his body jolted backward, his shield going out to his side.

 _Angelo's fingers danced down the front of her robe, index finger and middle finger walking slowly like two legs as he trailed them down her collarbone, down slowly between the barely-there valley between her breasts. She held her breath the whole time, watching the smile cross his lips as she tightened her fingers into a fist of growing tension until he stopped in the middle of her chest._

" _This is the solar plexus," he said, gently tapping both his fingers against the spot. She could feel a jolt run through her nerves as he pressed the point. "Hit a man here, even a giant of a man, and you can bring him to a knee."_

 _He placed her curled fist on his bare chest in the spot and gave her a nod. As the punch cracked against his flesh, he doubled down and gasped for breath._

She pulled her right hand back, picturing the spot somewhere beneath the Warden's breastplate, beneath the rings he wore underneath, beneath the sweaty shirt that no doubt clung to his chest. She pulled the Veil backward, twisting around her closed hand.

She skipped, a slight hop as she pulled her right foot forward, her feet crossing beneath her. Her left foot moved forward, stomping down. Her fist twisted, the power of the punch coming from the shoulder as she condensed and shaped the energy around her arm.

His armor dented inward at the impact of the spell, a ringing, crunching sound as it bent beneath the force and he flew backward. Even as he crumbled to the ground, his body scraped across the stones, weapon and shield tumbling from his grasp until he lay yards away, still.

Vell held her stance just for a moment as the rush of power washed over her and the wave of the Veil melted back into the infinite ocean of the beyond. The soldiers behind stopped, staring, at their fallen brother broken at their feet before looking back up at her.

What did they see? Did they see an apostate? Did they see a demon? Did they wonder how an elf girl, thin as a rail, rainbow-headed with six earrings dangling from one ear, could summon such strength?

She was on them in a second, bursting forward again with the aid of Jac's spell. The one closer to the wall had a sword in his left hand and shield in his right. The other, a two-handed axe hefted back behind his hip.

" _The kick comes from a chamber, like loading a crossbow. The power comes from the knee, not from the rotation of your body." She watched as Angelo slowly rotated, his right foot turning until it nearly pointed backward behind him as his left leg rose before him, knee bent, shin almost horizontal to her. He slowly extended his lower leg, then bent it back, his right leg as solid and sturdy as a tree beneath him._

 _Every muscle in his body seemed taut at once. He stood with near perfect balance, his body unmoving except for the slow, steady, practiced movement he elicited from it. The smell of his sweat and spice made her head dizzy and her legs weak._

" _You can kick nearly any height from here," he said as he slowly extended his leg up toward her head, then toward her chest, then down toward her thigh. "If your opponent doesn't know where the attack is coming, he won't be able to defend it."_

She pulled the black entropic energy into her left hand and forced it upon the fighter to her right as the spell weakened and slowed him. She hopped back, out of the way of the looping axe strike from the other as she twisted her palms together at her right hip, pulling the roiling flame between them.

There was no time to recover, no time to move, and no Templar anti-magic to save him as she thrust forward, pressing the fireball toward his winged helmet. The ball of flame exploded as it struck the steel and the Warden fell heavy as the twisted, scorched metal smoked atop his shoulders.

Vell stepped forward, her right foot planting, her hips turning as she lifted her left leg. The Warden's shield moved to protect his flank as his sword twisted and prepared to bring a counterattack. She chambered higher, rotating her hip a little further to get the height as she snapped off the kick with the Veil behind it.

She could hear the crack of bone breaking as the green wave threw him hard into the parapet. His helmed head banged against the stone and his legs gave way as Vell ducked down and pushed further toward the tower.

She looked back at the Inquisition soldiers now streaming one-by-one up the ladders and onto the walls. She watched the twisting, crackling balls of electric bend from Merin's staff up toward the tower, sending the archers poised in its narrow slits back from their firing posts.

"Where do you need us?" Catlyn shouted as she rushed to Vell's position. Donal, already breathing heavily from the running, followed a few steps behind her, his robe already soaked in sweat.

Vell pointed her fingers up toward the tower, even as the air shimmered with a white glow as Donal pulled a barrier around them to deflect a spray of incoming arrows. The archers retreated as another arc of lightning skipped across the stones from Merin behind them.

"We knock it out," she said. "I'll go up. You two head down. Clear it out."

"Got it."

"Yeah," Donal agreed with a huff.

Vell glanced over the wall, seeing the last of the Inquisiton soldiers coming up the ladders. A bit further out in the field, she could see two final people. The Templar led, his shield in front of him and covering his escort. Taesas trudged more slowly than someone on a battlefield should.

All he had told her was that he would keep them alive long enough to get them atop the walls. He didn't specify how at the time, but it soon became clear that it had been a great undertaking on his own part. Still, if an arrow or five happened to hit him, she couldn't picture herself weeping.

The entryway of the tower was narrow and dark and a Warden with a large tower shield stood in the way. For a normal man, he might be a formidable obstacle. Vell rolled her right hand at her hip, twisting the Veil around her palm and thrust, throwing the man out of the way.

Catlyn flared past her on the side, following with a long, looping swing of her staff that lifted the man off the floor and slammed him into the ceiling of the towerhouse. She jerked her staff down and Vell could feel the Veil follow it, slamming the warrior down into the floor. The impact bounced the sword and shield out of either hand and the Warden lay motionless.

Vell hit the stairs, taking them two at a time as she charged up the tower to the top level until she came to a shut door. She pushed. It didn't budge. She shook her head, took a breath and pulled back her right hand again once more and shattered it to splinters.

A hail of arrows whizzed through the now open-door frame as Vell pushed her body close to the wall. She held her breath as she ripped the mana out of the Fade, watching as the black miasma around her body crept up her body like a snaking fog and rolled into a ball in her palm, growing larger and darker as the energy spiraled around with more and more power.

The Enchanters in the Maker-damned Circle wouldn't approve of this kind of magic, she thought with a grin as she admired the glowing black ball. Something like " _Lo and verily, this elf walks the line of maleficar, alas! Alas!"_ Why scorn a perfectly good weapon because it glows the wrong color and fucks with people's heads?

Vell turned back into the open doorway - noting the half dozen or so Wardens in the room - and heaved the ball, watching the black orb burst into a black cloud of entropic energy. She followed it, diving into the obscuring haze as she listened to the shouts and screams as the black magic began to eat away at its victims.

She whirled to the right toward the sliver of light from the arrow slit and the archer standing near it trying to aim his bow into the smoke as he struggled to back away. As Vell burst from within the haze he fired, spraying wide to her left side, and she was on top of him before before he could draw another arrow. The force of the first strike slammed him into the wall and the fireball she dropped into his stomach as he bounced back tossed him toward the ceiling as it detonated.

Vell spun back into the fog, emerging before another Warden who was clawing his armor off of his arms as if they were filled with fire ants biting his flesh. She planted her left foot and rotated on it, bringing a kick to his chest that threw him across the chamber and deeper into the fog where she could only hear his frightened scream.

The third was already dead, succumbed to the choking gas of her entropic cloud. The fourth took two dizzied slashes at her with his sword as she stumbled like she was drunk before Vell hit her three times in the chest before the Warden crumpled around her dented-in armor. The fifth fled for the doorway, but she pulled him back with a wall of force throwing him back into the room, then a downward slam that crushed him into the floor.

It was then that the fog cleared with a burst of white light and the sixth, the last Warden in the room, stood with his helmet pulled off his head and a sword in his hand. He had three long, bloody claw marks across his left eye, as if he had nearly ripped it out of his own head to combat whatever phantoms he saw under the influence of her spell.

He had regained his wits, apparently, as she felt a sudden vacuum in the room as if all of the air were being sucked out as his empty left hand began to glow white. She knew that feeling as she watched him straighten as he cleared the magic and stared her down.

Templar.

Maybe wearing Warden's clothing, but he was no doubt Chantry trained.

"Surrender, mage, and I will show your mercy," he growled as he blinked to keep the drips of blood from falling into his eye.

Vell lifted her hand and reached for the Fade beyond it, but although she visualized the fire in her mind, the connection to the other side was dead. She dropped the hand back to her hip.

The Warden laughed and raised his glowing fist a little higher and shook it at her. "I've cut off your magic. You can't win."

"Can't I?" she asked as she crooked her head to the side, pressing her knuckles into her palms until they cracked.

The Warden wasn't impressed, obviously, as he charged forward and thrust his sword at her.

Vell slid her foot back, turned the side and reached for the Veil. She pushed, throwing it and knocking his strike out of the way. She laughed inwardly as the slow, sudden look of surprise washed over his face, then followed with a spinning kick that took him over his shoulder and slammed him into the ground so hard he bounced up before landing flat.

Vell shook her head in disgust, wheeled back and kicked him again in the side with the Veil wrapped around her foot, hard enough to lift him off the ground and throw him into the back wall where he fell in a slump.

She watched his chin sag into his chest and his arms go limp and floppy against the wall. From the top of the tower, she could hear the muffled sounds of fighting from outside and feel the vibration through the floor as who knows what kind of mayhem was being unleashed on the lower floors. She looked over at the last Warden again.

He counted as a Templar, right? She pondered it as she looked at his armor and tabard. He wore blue and white and the griffon insignia, but nobody knew how to do that anti-magic thing unless they were a Templar. That had to count. She was counting it.

Vell exhaled, for the first time realizing how tired her muscles felt after the exertion of the fight. She glanced around the room at the destruction she unleashed, checking each of the six Wardens one more time to make sure none of them were moving.

She looked at that fourth one she had killed, the woman, and walked across the room to inspect the body. Vell gave her a nudge with her boot, rolling the woman over and looking at the side of her head. She grabbed the dead woman's hair and lifted, looking under and checking the other ear, too. No earrings. Damn.

She'd have to find another one somewhere at some point and pierce it through her ear as her seventh trophy. It would take centuries to even the body count between the mages and templars, but she was doing her part.

Vell began to stand when she felt the Veil began to twist around her oddly. She turned her head, but before she could get her head fully around, she was slamming into the back wall, the force of the blow knocking the wind of her lungs as she tumbled to the floor.

Vell could hear the rush of footsteps on the ground as she tried to pick herself up, a sharp pain in her back as she wheezed, struggling to get the air back in her lungs. And then her assailant was upon her, with a sharp kick into her chest to knock her backward again into a sitting position against the wall.

She barely got her hands up in front of her, grasping the wrist out of the air as the knife plunged toward her. The blade was already bathed in blood, wrapped around long, thin fingers trembling with hate.

Vell saw that it was Catlyn holding the dagger, pushing against Vell's weakened arms.

Catlyn pushed again, grunting.

"Just die, you fucking knife-eared abomination," Catlyn growled as the blade inched closer to Vell's throat.

She pushed up, forcing what strength she could into her arms, lifting Catlyn's arms away from her neck as she could feel the first narrow wheeze of air return to her lungs. With another struggling shove, Catlyn pushed the dagger ahead, the edge of the blade cutting a thin streak across Vell's left cheek.

As the lance of pain seared her face, her breath returned and she shoved back, hard, with her magic behind it, throwing Catlyn back away from her.

The Marcher mage stumbled, nearly tripping over one of the bodies on the ground before collecting her balance as she pulled the knife back down to her hip as Vell scrambled to her feet, panting and gagging as she quickly pulled her returned breath in and out.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Vell shouted as she wiped her finger across her cheek, grimacing at the sting as she looked at the streak of blood on the edge of her index finger.

Catlyn slowly crouched down toward the floor, dropping the dagger out of her hand and exchanging it for the Warden's sword lying at her feet, never taking her eyes off Vell. She held the blade low and pulled it back slightly behind her, no doubt ready to thrust with it again.

"I'm doing what the Inquisitor wouldn't and putting an end to this demon's magic," Catlyn said, holding her position for the moment. "I kill you, then I kill that crazy old woman and no one ever thinks about it again."

"You're one of us now, too," Vell made sure to point out. "If the Inquisition burns us, they'll burn you too."

Catlyn had the audacity to grin. "I wouldn't be so sure about that."

"Where's Donal?" Vell asked, suddenly concerned about the bloody dagger on the ground. She had sent both of them down to the lower level of the tower, but only she was here.

"The Wardens stabbed him right in the back," she said mockingly sweet, a clear lie. "Twice, to get through all the fat. And the Wardens are going to stab you, too."

No wonder she hadn't just killed Vell when she had the chance. There wasn't a mage in the room. If Vell was curled up in a mass of burns or magical wounds, that might draw the wrong kind of questions. But a slash to the throat and no one would be the wiser.

Vell didn't wait, throwing a wave of force forward. Catlyn swept her left arm, summoning her own and smacking it aside with a crack of thunder that rumbled the tower. She was better than she let on at Skyhold and she came forward.

Vell expected the thrust of the sword and began to build the fire in her palm when Catlyn slipped forward in a haze of magic. She could see the translucent form of Catlyn phase through her and feel the creeping sensation of frost running through her body as she passed, materializing behind Vell. Catlyn spun, whirling the sword down at Vell's thigh.

" _Just like a high block, this one is a low block," Angelo explained as he pulled her arm down toward his leg. "You can use it to block low kicks. Also good from stopping pirates from smacking you with an oar during a boarding, since they always seem to swing them right about here."_

 _Angelo laughed as he slipped his hands around her hips from behind, adjusting her hands to the right positions. She could feel the bulge in his pants pressing against her backside, taking the opportunity to enjoy the feeling of his body and the warmth of his embrace._

She barely caught it in time, the blade just barely nicking her arm before her magic could stop it and push it back. Her arms felt heavy and sluggish with the chill of Catlyn's frost as the woman came at her again brandishing the sword.

Vell didn't attempt to block the incoming strike, instead shutting her frost-laden eyes and drawing in on her magic as the edge closed in on her. A moment too long, and she would feel the steel raking through her neck. She gritted her teeth, feeling the magic ready to burst.

Vell opened her eyes, seeing the sword arcing toward her body, until it stopped inches from her face and dropped out of Catlyn's grip as she wailed.

Vell could feel the black fog dissipating around her eyes as she stared down the other mage, glare filled with entropy, expending the last of the unorthodox spell. Catlyn stumbled backward, her hands holding the sides of her head, jerking from side to side in imagined horror.

Vell stepped forward as the burst of flame from within her burned away the frost gripping her body, even as Catlyn shuffled backward as she tried to fight the magic gripping her mind. It was no good, as Vell planted a hand into her chest and fired, launching her back and into the wall where her body crunched awkwardly.

Catlyn slumped to the floor and Vell paced over to her, staring the woman down with rage as she writhed on the floor. She could feel her fingers as they threaded through Catlyn's long, blonde hair. She could feel them curling into a fist as she yanked the woman's head up, lifting her slowly off the floor.

Vell didn't recall slamming the woman's face into the stone wall, but the next time she blinked, there was a fresh red splotch on the bricks and a pitiful whimpering sound coming from Catlyn.

"Please, don't kill me," she said weakly. "I can explain."

She didn't want to hear an explanation. She didn't want to let this monster try to reason her way out of this. Catlyn had tried to kill her. If what she hinted was true, she had already killed Donal.

She hurt others. And if she hurt others, she had to pay.

Vell tightened her fingers again, pulling Catlyn's head back once more to exact the price of her betrayal, of the pain she had caused.

"Don't do it Vell!"

Her arm seized at the shout of Merin's voice from the doorway. She glanced over toward the entry, toward the elf standing there, his hand outstretched as if he could reach across the chamber and restrain her even though he was yards and yards away. He was sweaty and breathy, but his eyes were locked.

"She killed Donal!" Vell shouted back, glancing down at Catlyn's bloodied face and her nose bent awkwardly to the side.

"I know," Merin said calmly, oddly calm for the situation. He continued to reach out toward her as he took two slow steps into the chamber. "But this isn't the way. It's not right."

He came another two steps toward her, his fingers still outstretched as if he were trying to pull her back from the edge of the abyss. He never took his eyes off her, his face chiseled in stony concern.

"Please," he said softly, pleading.

The word shocked a memory through her.

" _Angelo, don't. Please."_

She had begged those three words just before he got up from the mess hall bench and confronted the Templar, her tormentor. She had begged those three words before he grabbed the Templar's head and slammed it into the wall over and over and over. She had begged those three words before they dragged him away and savagely stole his will with their Maker-damned rite.

Vell's hand jerked open, dropping Catlyn's hair from her grasp as she recoiled in horror, realizing where she stood and what she was doing. She stumbled backward, shaking her hand violently as she tried to get the strands of golden hair and droplets of blood off of her.

She saw the way Catlyn curled in pain on the floor, defeated, unable to resist any longer.

There was no real justice to be found in simple vengeance, Vell knew.

She swallowed. She felt like throwing up. The tower was quiet except for the sounds of battle still raging outside the walls.

What could she say? What had she almost done?

Merin continued, before she could stammer anything.

"The Loyalist Enchanter is atop the walls. They're getting ready to breach the inner curtain now," he said. He motioned with his head to the doorway. "Go. I'll keep guard on her. And I'll make sure someone takes care of Donal."

Vell only nodded in appreciation.

"Thank you," she said.

She meant it.


	35. Chapter 35

**Thirty-five**

When he came back, he found himself awkwardly shuffling through the sand.

His left arm ached, wrapped around Matteo's shoulders as the Templar held him up and slogged at a slow pace alongside him. Taesas could feel his staff pressed into his back, held there by Matteo, while the Knight-Lieutenant lugged his kite shield in his other arm not tied up supporting the mage.

Apparently Taesas had been walking under his own power, although he couldn't remember any of it. The insides of his cheeks seemed to tingle with a numb sweetness, although his tongue felt dull, burnt and bitter. His throat ached and burned and as he slowly moved his tongue around his teeth, he could taste both the chalky, metallic residue of the lyrium as well as the sour acid of vomit.

He could hear the slow thump of his pulse, each beat rushing thrumming through his head as if a muffled drum were held up to his ears. He felt light-headed, light-bodied almost. If not for the pressure of the ground against the bottoms of his feet, he might not have been sure that he wasn't floating above the dirt.

Taesas moved his tongue again and smacked his lips, forcing himself to swallow what felt like a gelatinous glob of fluid that had settled in the back corners of his mouth. It was only then that he felt he had the strength to open his eyes again.

When he did, it was dark. He remembered, now, that it was night when they started the assault. It was still night. But how long had passed since then, he wasn't quite sure. Quietly, somewhere behind the drumming of the blood moving past his temples, through his skull and back to his heart, he could still faintly hear the sound of battle.

Also there, louder and seemingly closer, was that gentle humming music that he could never quite place where it came from. It felt like it came from the sky, from a place that was always there but always just out of reach.

"How long?" Taesas muttered weakly as he glanced down at the dusty ground beneath him and tried to consciously take the next step forward. As his right leg moved, his foot touching the ground, his entire body seemed to lurch and fall on top of it. He would have tumbled, if not for Matteo still holding onto him.

"Only a few minutes," Matteo said.

It felt like hours had gone by, although his vision continued to fill in and the sensation was slowly returning to his limbs. They passed between two bodies lying in the dirt in a puddle of blood that looked black in the night, each peppered with arrows. Just a bit ahead of them was a wall of ice, dripping water silently into the sand from the slightly curved-back tops.

The memory began to flow back too. He recalled staring down the black walls that were now growing in front of him from afar. The field had been laid out before him and he had directed his magic across it. The bitter taste in his mouth seemed to flare at the memory, the thought of him quaffing the blue potions in between the exertion of weaving the spells together.

Yes, that was right. He had done this to himself, because it was necessary. The lyrium. He had needed the lyrium in order to ensure the task would be completed. He had known before that the amount was far above what would normally be considered safe for consumption outside of the Circle. Not fatal, no, but dangerous nonetheless.

The sour taste around his gums informed the memory. At the end of it, when his spells were completed, he had fallen to a knee as the lyrium and the contents of his stomach trickled up his throat in a vile, foamy stream.

And then he had slipped away, quietly, as if laying his head upon a soft pillow and immediately slipping into dreams.

"The tower?" Taesas asked, trying another step, this time finding his leg to be sturdy and balanced. He suddenly felt very hot. In one instant, that weightlessness ceased as he could once more feel his corporeal form fully. His body was heavy with fatigue, warm and wet.

"It's been quiet," Matteo said. "I can only assume they've succeeded in securing it, as planned."

Taesas gave a nod as he lifted his arm from Matteo's shoulder, stopping for a second as he tested his balance. The Templar next to him stopped, giving Taesas a little room.

He swayed at first as all of his weight became his own again. He looked up toward the walls, seeing an arc of purple lightning bend just over the ramparts. The three ladders leaned against the wall in place. Around their feet, dug into the earth, was a small pile of bodies; Inquisition soldiers garbed in metal armor wearing their ghastly pale green and tan leather.

Taesas hadn't had the strength to protect all of them. These men had died. They were necessary losses, so that many more could survive to mount the walls after them. The mission, thus far, was a success. The casualties were unavoidable.

The Enchanter took a breath, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and exhaled, once again feeling his body around him fully. He extended his other hand to his side and Matteo placed the shaft of the staff into his palm.

Taesas tightened his fingers around the pole and squeezed it, satisfied with the strength that had returned. He was nowhere near at his peak, but the after effects of the lyrium had faded enough for him to continue.

"I'm ready," Taesas announced as he looked at the ladders and the soldiers surrounding them at the top of the wall. His unit had done their duty and secured the section of wall as assigned.

Matteo, who had left his helmet behind, grinned.

"Good. Because if it came to me having to try to carry you up that ladder, I was going to leave you down here in the dirt," he said.

"And here I thought we were friends," Taesas said.

Matteo shrugged. "I'm old."

Taesas could hardly argue with that as he pushed forward on sore legs and began to scale the ladder, Matteo just a few rungs behind him. He reached the top, pushing himself over the parapet of the wall to where the Inquisition soldiers were holding.

As his feet touched down, he looked down the walkway at the mix of bodies lying on the ground, some Warden some Inquisition. He glanced to his right at the tower, which was, as Matteo said, quiet.

"Good to see you, Enchanter," said the Orlesian rift mage with a slight bow of his head. Whether it was sincere or subtly mocking, Taesas was too tired to care.

"What's our position?" Taesas asked.

"Tower is secure. Our section of wall is secure. The Wardens have fallen back deeper into the fortress. Haven't run across any demons," the Orlesian said.

"Yet," added the Fereldan rift mage with the fiery red beard. "I can feel them."

The Orlesian looked over his shoulder at his companion then back to Taesas. "Yet," he agreed.

Matteo's boots clanked down behind him as the Templar came over the top of the wall. Taesas noticed his eyes drifting to the north, to the last tower, where his daughter had been assigned. All appeared secure there, too, with the Inquisition banner hoisted in the last tower before the abyss. He could see Inquisition soldiers moving along the northern wall, pressing deeper in the fort.

"Well done," Taesas said. Both of the rift mages were breathing heavily and drenched in sweat, but they otherwise appeared unharmed. "You two, with me. Matteo, have some men hold this position and send the rest to the bottom of the tower to prepare to breach the interior."

The Templar set to his orders without a word as Taesas marched toward the tower, glancing down at a dead Warden whose chestplate had been dented sharply inward into his ribcage. The metal was pushed in too deeply to have been from a strike from any mace or hammer, that he knew it could only come from once source.

He didn't see the malcontent, which boded well. But, likewise, he hadn't seen Catlyn either.

Another two Wardens lie dead, one with his still-smoldering helmet melted around his head, the other lying slumped against the parapet with his neck bent at an unusual angle. He stepped over them, closer to the entrance of the tower.

And she emerged from the inside.

Vell had a fresh gash across her left cheek and a streak of bright red blood from it. Otherwise, she appeared unharmed.

"Nice of you to join us," she said as she stretched her arms out, bracing her palms against either side of the entrance into the tower. "You missed all the excitement."

"Is the tower secure?" Taesas said, making sure to mask both his disdain and disappointment.

"Of course."

"And where are the others?" he asked.

Vell snorted at the question and shot an accusing glare at him as she narrowed her eyes. She dabbed the blood from the cut across her cheek them flicked her fingertips down toward the ground, sending a small spray of her own blood onto the ground in front of his feet.

"The Wardens got Donal," she said. "Catlyn… Catlyn was wounded. Merin is keeping an eye on her. But don't worry. _She'll live._ "

"A regrettable loss, but we need to push on," Taesas said, not giving Vell anything more than that. Whatever she thought she knew, he was confident she didn't.

It didn't come as much of a surprise that the idiot Marcher girl had failed. She was a fool with too much ambition and arrogance for her own good and a fatal lack of patience. Catlyn had grown up noble in name only, believing she was worth much more than the nothing she actually was.

A true player of the Game could hold for months, years even, waiting for the proper moment to strike. Only fools rushed in.

If the Inquisitor let her keep her head after this affair, he hoped she'd learn that lesson. Especially when she received the news of her father's rather abrupt financial ruin and the creditors that were in the process of ransacking the Bresna name for every bit of gold that could be squeezed out of it.

Taesas certainly could have moved money around to prop up Catlyn's family debt. He had intended to, at one point. But then he had determined that Orlais was in enough turmoil without stirring up new blood feuds and trying to rearrange trade lines in the midst of a war.

No, it was much easier to just reach a partner in the Marches willing to gut the Bresnas as they deserved to be gutted, and take his share of the profits. Catlyn was almost certainly doomed to fail. On the off chance that she had succeeded, he could have toasted his good fortune and celebrated. Upon her inevitable failure, he had lost nothing worth losing.

Perhaps, when Catlyn was laid low, he would spit in _her_ face to remind her that, despite his pointed ears, _she_ was the one who was worth less than nothing.

Vell didn't look impressed. He didn't really care. He glanced down the ramparts toward the inner walls of the fortress and an interior gate that still stood closed in the yard below. If their maps had been accurate, that would allow them access to the center of the fortress where all of the Inquisition assault teams were to eventually meet.

"Gather our forces! We press inward into the fortress!" he shouted loud enough that the soldiers would hear.

His raised voice scratched through his sore throat, bringing the bitter taste of lyrium back onto the tip of his tongue. His body still felt off, as if either his legs or the ground beneath him were slightly liquid and unsteady. Each blink felt heavy and his head seemed to want to drift back into sleep. He knew that was the lyrium still in his system, wanting to try to pull his consciousness across the Veil where the demons resided.

He could hear Matteo marshaling the forces and setting defenses on the walls, and when the Templar came to his side, Taesas reached out to grab his arm. He leaned in close and spoke quietly, so no one else would hear.

"Stay close to me, regardless of what happens," Taesas said. "If there are demons afoot…"

He didn't say more, but Matteo took his meaning and clapped him softly on the soldier.

"I'll keep you protected," Matteo assured him.

They entered the tower, descending the stairs to the lower level. When he came into the room at the bottom of the tower, he looked at the aftermath of the battle.

There were signs of magic that had scorched the walls. Several Wardens were dead. Some appeared to have visible blunt-force injuries, perhaps from the force of rift magic. A few appeared to have more traditional wounds. One was badly burned from head to waist. Another was bent into a shape that suggested he had been electrocuted.

Near the stairway was the body of the fat mage. He was face down on the floor, with a large red stain on his back. The blood had leached into the fabric of his robe and began to drip down the side, pooling under him on the floor. His staff was pinned under his body, tucked inside his right arm. His left arm was slightly out, almost as if he had tried to catch himself as he fell inches from death.

His robes were undamaged by magic. There was another Warden dead on the floor near him, sword still in hand. The small sheath at that Warden's waist was empty. The knife that filled it was missing.

He wasn't the first casualty of the Grand Game, and he certainly wouldn't be the last. Like many, he probably didn't even realize that he was playing. Ignorance had never spared anyone. He had placed his ante the moment he had joined with Fiona's malcontents to practice their blasphemy.

Taesas didn't spare him a moment more, turning out of the entry to the narrow steps leading down from the tower. The interior tower he and Matteo had been worried about appeared to be quiet. Either they were waiting for the right moment to spring to life or, more likely, the Wardens didn't have the numbers to man it. If it was the former, things would get messy.

He glanced down before him, seeing that there were no Wardens in the interior yard. But he could clearly see the meandering demons sliding back and forth, unsure of what exactly to do now that they existed in the physical realm.

From what he could see, they were lowly creatures, mostly shades and rage demons. As he looked at them, it was almost as if they could feel his eyes as they turned toward the tower. They stopped, their amorphous faces turned toward his position, almost as if they were sensing him there.

They could feel him, he knew. He knew, because he could almost feel them too. The lyrium in his body almost seemed to tingle, as if the color faded slightly from the world around him. But the demons, the demons seemed clear even through the haze across his vision.

Matteo came to his side once more, stopping as he noticed Taesas staring down the demons in the distance. More were slithering up to join the others as they began to mill together, holding.

"What is it?" Matteo asked as he pulled his sword, clearly unsettled at the sight of demons in the flesh once more.

"It's the lyrium," Taesas said as he slowly reached behind him to pull the staff from his back. "They're drawn to it. They're drawn to me."

He couched the staff under his arm, pointed end out, as he slowly withdrew a step, then another. The demons fidgeted, anxious. As Taesas' foot touched against the first step and he began to retreat upward.

The demons held where they were, considering him. More began to slink out into the path before them, all holding near the interior gate.

The Inquisition soldiers pooling at the bottom of the stairs held their swords and shields at the ready, but none appeared eager to charge forward into the demons by the way they held their blades back and no one had advanced out of stone's throw of him or Matteo.

No doubt, if he were to charge into them, they would be whipped into a frenzy to try to tear him limb from limb. They could sense the lyrium and, by now, they would be able to feel the emanations of his magic and how strongly it flowed between his body and the Fade. They would mow over each other for the chance to try to possess him.

"Send the mages," Taesas said to his counterpart.

"Is that wise?" Matteo asked, knowing that it wasn't. He of all people knew that it was foolish to send a mage against a demon, no matter how weak the demon might be perceived to be or how powerful the mage was known to be. Even the smallest mistakes would doom them.

The standard tactical thing to do would be to send in Matteo with enough of the Inquisition rank and file to put the demons down. Some of the soldiers would likely perish, being unprepared to fight the otherworldly fiends. But it would be safest and, if he knew Matteo, the Knight-Lieutenant always erred on the side of caution.

"They stand a much better chance than the foot soldiers," Taesas said to persuade the logical part of the Templar's mind.

"I should go with them," Matteo said.

"No," was his quick response. "If they fail, we'll need you most of all."

He could tell Matteo didn't like it, but he turned and waved the mages down because he was well-trained to obey. Taesas continued to observe the demons from his vantage on the stairs as Matteo quickly briefly the so-called rift mages.

"Too scared to do the dirty work yourself?" Vell snorted as she passed him on the stairs.

"Pint says you piss yourself," the red-haired Fereldan said to his companion.

"Bottle of Val Royeaux red says I save you life at least one," his Orlesian companion fired back with a shove as if they were immature boys attending classes at the local school.

They continued to jostle with each other until Vell stopped them around twenty yards out from the stairs as the demons pushed upward, holding their own line at the encroaching mages. They still seemed more intent on Taesas, but the new targets had gained their attention.

Vell turned to her left and right, saying something to each of the two men that he couldn't hear from the distance, until they both nodded. Taesas could feel them begin reaching into the Fade. A moment later, the elf was charging ahead toward the demons with the other two trailing from behind.

The first shade exploded into a puff of dust as a crack of green magic crushed it down into the ground. Vell dodged aside as one of the rage demons took a swipe at her, only for the Orlesian to hit it with a blast of cold as she spun out of reach. The Fereldan cut in where Vell had gone out, twirling as he whipped his staff around, smashing the frozen demon into pieces with another crack of the Veil energy they whipped around.

As he backed away, Vell charged in again, engaging the next two shades, pushing one back with her rift magic before deflecting the claws of the other, then hitting it in the body with a fireball. The other shade was nearly on top of her when the Orlesian wrapped her in a barrier to hold it off, then the Fereldan cut it to pieces with a barrage of fiery energy.

Taesas squeezed his fingers tightly around his staff as he watched them methodically move forward bit by bit. One by one, they would attack, retreat, support and then attack again in a three-man weave. The demons, mindless, raged, charged into the narrow gauntlet made by the mages as each one was picked apart.

Each crack of the rift mage felt like someone stomping their boots onto his toes as he watched them succeed, easily. At his best, he could have easily cleared the field on his own. But Fiona's rebels were supposed to be amateurs, hot-headed separatists more content on splitting from the Circle than learning its lessons.

Taesas had watched the rift mages daily during their training at Skyhold. They had not been nearly this proficient. Had they masked their true skill?

The three mages worked in concert, so well that it was only moments more before they had cleared the field and hunched down to catch their breath. The Fereldan shoved the Orlesian. The Orlesian said something that made the Fereldan stumble back with laughter.

Vell straightened, her fists planted on her narrow hips as she surveyed the clean yard left before her. She turned her head, smiling over her shoulder, as she raised her left arm and waved the rest of the soldiers down as casually if she were leading a merchant's cart to its proper stall in the market.

The Inquisition soldiers began to move, without his orders, to join her. Taesas glanced around the walls and at the tower again. This part of the fortress appeared to be all quiet now. Where had the Warden's gone? Why was there no one remaining to eliminate Vell and her cohort of bastards?

Matteo could sense Taesas' frustration. Without making any note of the ease the rift mages had had, he instead tipped his sword toward the interior gate slightly.

"We should press on," he said, then himself began to descend the stairs until Taesas was the last of their group to start moving toward the gate.

As he passed below the walls of Adamant, for the first time he saw what had happened to the Wardens. Their mages and soldiers lay dead on the ground, with wounds consistent with demon attacks. One of the mages, one that had no doubt called and bound one of the demons, was slouched against the wall with a good portion of his entrails slopped into his lap.

Taesas didn't pity any of them for being slain by their own abominations. Treating with demon's was a foolish proposition, one that these Wardens had learned with their blood.

He looked at the short gatehouse and the wooden gates that stood closed before them. There were no Wardens guarding above it. From the sound of the fighting elsewhere in Adamant, it appeared that they had abandoned this side of the keep to battle elsewhere. Before the gates, the castle was almost quiet.

"Get us through this gate," Taesas commanded to the Inquisition soldiers carrying the short ram they had brought to breach the entryway. With no opposition, it would go even quicker.

"Let me handle it," Vell said as she cracked the knuckles on her right hand then stepped toward the door. She looked it up and down once, then placed her palm against the narrow slit in the middle where the two doors joined.

She stopped. Took a breath. Then pulled back her arm.

As the magic struck the wood, it buckled inward and splintered, making a loud clamor as the metal hinges on either side twisted and broke. As they swung open slightly, he could see the broken jam on the other side falling to the ground as Vell reached out and gave the door a shove until they swung inward.

"I could have done that," The Fereldan said close enough to Taesas that he could hear it.

"Doubtful," the Orlesian said.

"Make your way to the rendezvous point," Matteo ordered the soldiers before any more bickering could begin. "If all went according to plan, we should converge with the other teams at the central courtyard.

"Now let's move!" The soldiers sprung to life, filing through the gate.

And then the horn blared from the rear of the fortress.

Taesas turned his head to the north at the frenzied double blast from the horn, toward the last tower before the abyss. From the ramparts, he could see the Inquisition soldiers that had breached the fortress there re-engaged in a battle. He could make out the tabards of a few Wardens, but most of the force pushing back along the walls appeared to be demons.

Further to the east, he noticed two large figures stalking along the walls. The massive, purple bodies sparked with electric, as the two pride demons stomped ahead of the other demons toward the embattled Inquisition team.

The soldiers from his section of wall were already moving in that direction along the walls to support the threatened tower, as they were supposed to. Whether they'd be able to hold it against that kind of force and two powerful demons, he doubted. But their objective was forward. If the Inquisition temporarily lost the rear-most tower, it should not affect the ultimate objective.

Taesas knew that, but that hadn't stopped Matteo from stepping forward to get a better look at the calamity.

He craned his head up, watching the mash of soldiers and demons colliding atop the walls as he scanned back toward the reinforcements gathering at the tower and the demons pushing down upon them.

"I'm going to help them," Matteo said.

Taesas' staff was lifted before the Templar before the man even spoke the final word, barring him from stepping forward.

"No," Taesas said. "Our objective is forward."

"My daughter is up there," Matteo reminded Taesas, although he needed no reminding. The moment he had heard the horn and placed where it was coming from, he was sure Matteo would try to go to it.

"We have our orders, Knight-Lieutenant," Taesas again reminded him, this time more sternly as he stepped in front of Matteo, placing a hand on his breastplate to stop him. "They must fend for themselves. If we don't meet our own objective, we may place the Inquisitor and the entire assault in jeopardy."

"You know they can't defend against that," Matteo said as he tried to step around Taesas, who slid his feet and pushed back against Matteo to stall him.

"They will, because they must," Taesas said. "As for us, _we have our orders_."

Matteo shuffled forward again a half step, not far enough to contact Taesas again, when he stopped. He continued to look up as another horn blew two more blasts to call for aid. The electric whip of one of the pride demons lashed out, striking a soldier who seized and fell off the rampart.

Decades of life in the Templar Order had molded Matteo into the man he was. If nothing else, discipline had been drilled into him through and through. As a Templar, as a soldier, there was nothing more sacred that following orders given of necessity.

Templars knew it more than most. Every man staffed in the Circle had to be ready to execute their orders, whether to detain a mage and take them to be given the Rite, to strike down a dangerous mage swayed to blood magic or demonic possession or to draw his sword and annul the entire Circle he had spent years of his life in, if required.

The Chantry drilled the rational part of the brain in so deeply that it killed and silenced the emotional part. It was necessary among Templars. Their sacred duty demanded they might someday have to do what they knew was right even if it felt wrong.

Taesas knew it. Matteo knew it. And both knew that his daughter knew it, too.

Matteo lowered his sword to his side and took one step backward, submitting to Taesas' command.

"Maker shield you, daughter," he whispered to himself and turned around toward the gate and their objective.

When he turned and moved, Taesas could see the mage behind him, her face twisted in anger and her fist clenched tightly at her side. Her arm was visibly tensed and trembling as she stared down Taesas.

She held out her other hand, stopping Matteo as he moved toward the gate, as she turned her eyes up toward the ramparts, then back to Taesas.

"You fucking coward," she cursed.

She was gone in a green streak before he could even try to stop her.


	36. Chapter 36

**Thirty-six**

Vell wasn't sure if her feet were even touching the ground.

Adamant moved around her in a streak, drab colored lines blurring around the edges of her vision as she flew toward the back tower and the Inquisition soldiers under siege by the demons. Each stride of her legs seemed to send her floating, flying, as the tore across the yard.

The Veil carried her, each step propelled by the current of the ever-moving curtain. She lodged herself inside of the waves, letting them curl around and carry her body.

Her entire body felt almost weightless, as if she were caught somewhere in the in between. The subtle pressure of her foot touching the ground reminded her that she was still part of the physical world. But the flight, the blurring of the world and the speed at which she moved all suggested that she was moving outside of the corporeal plane and its laws.

She could feel the sweat flying off of her body with each changing of her legs and every pump of her arms. The air in her lungs felt so hot it was as if she was inhaling and exhaling fire. She felt like she was burning from the inside out, her vision locked onto the tower and the shadows of demons that moved toward it.

Maybe she was on fire. Every time her arms came up in what felt like half speed compared to the way the fortress moved around her, she could see the flicker of green flame around her body.

Her rage was boiling out of her. She couldn't take it, the way the Templar had wanted to help and the way Taesas had talked him down, convinced him to do nothing even though he could have done something. It was apparent from the ground that every one of the soldiers in the tower was going to die if no one did anything.

Taesas was content to let them die because they weren't his responsibility.

Her fingers had curled into a fist so tight that it made the muscles in her forearm seize until she was overcome with a sudden knot that shot a sharp pain up toward her elbow.

She was up the stairs in what felt like two bounds and running along the wall. The Inquisiton soldiers rushing from their tower seemed to barely be moving at all. The Inquisition soldiers at the north tower were nearly as motionless, ducked behind their shields and bracing against the onslaught of the demons. The demons themselves crept, their long, wicked claws seemingly howling as they moved through the air.

Her field of vision was draped in green fire as she leapt over the dead bodies of Wardens and Inquisition men littered across the ramparts. The tower grew larger and larger before her, the soldiers and demons clearer and clearer, and everything moving slower and slower.

There was no doubt now, she realized, that she was tucked somewhere inside of the Veil itself. She could feel it surrounding her now, stronger and more present that she ever felt it with Thelric during her meditations. Was this how her mentor felt the Veil? Did she feel it this strongly, this vividly?

Vell drew back her right arm even as her feet still hovered about the ground, twisting her entire body around as she neared the battlefield, eyeing the large, black, jagged shade with its arms up over its head ready to strike down at a soldier whose shield had fallen away from her body.

She jumped, aiming her fist downward as she whistled through the air.

Vell struck the ground in an explosion of green fire.

Her magic connected with the shade, the impact slamming it down and back so hard that it crashed through the old, hardened stones of Adamant. The demon splattered into nothingness as the force broke the top of the wall away, sending stones tumbling into the infinite, tainted cleft below.

The girl with the curly brown hair fell backward onto her rear and recoiled on her hands at Vell's sudden appearance. Vell glanced down, catching the girl's stunned face through the updraft of green flame that wicked off of her body and dissipated in the air above her.

To Vell's left, the few remaining soldiers huddled close behind, many bloodied and battered. To her right, the ramparts were choked with bodies, some still writhing as the lesser demons raked their claws through armor and flesh. She watched as the closer of the hulking pride demons lifted its massive foot and stomped it down, crushing a barely-alive soldier beneath it.

The demon cocked its head back and laughed a deep, dreadful laugh at the kill.

"What… where did you come from?" the Templar girl said.

Her curled brown hair was spattered with blood and gore. Her face was white and saggy with dread, replacing the girlish infatuation she had buzzed around Tae with. Her armor and shield were scratched deeply and her sword was stained black with demon's blood.

Vell threw her right arm up, bringing the Veil across her body as a shield to knock aside the long, buzzing electric whip of the closer of the two pride demons. Two shades charged ahead and Vell twisted on her left foot, rotating her body around as they neared, bringing the Veil behind her right leg as she swept a kick that snapped both of the demons up into the air, over the wall and into the abyss, screeching as they fell into the darkness.

Vell placed her foot back down and glanced back at the Templar girl again.

She was so young. Younger than Vell even.

Taesas was going to let her die.

Her father. Her father was going to let her die too.

Her father was going to let her die because of some notion of following fucking orders.

No one was going to save her. No one was going to save any of them. All of the survivors, every last one of them was some human wretch and the godly men were going to let them all be slaughtered by demons.

Tae would run to the rendezvous point and say that he did his part, he completed his orders and that his men had lived through the assault. And if anyone asked him about the dozens of bodies lying on the walls just to the north of his position, he would casually shrug his shoulder and claim that they were not _his_ responsibility.

These soldiers were not just blades and shields. They were not just faceless lumps of meat to be told where to go and what to do and when to die. They were people. They were living, breathing things. No matter how they came here, they were not expendable.

No one was disposable.

She wasn't disposable.

She was thrown into the Circle young and poor and scared and elven. That was the label they had put on her the second she was inside their walls and it was how they had always treated her. She was teased and scolded and berated every day by the apprentices and the Templars and the Enchanters.

None of them had cared whether she lived or died. None of them bothered to take notice when she would disappear for days at a time. None of them ever cared what happened to her when the Templar would drag her into the dungeons and torture her to gather the blood he wanted and to satisfy his depraved fetish.

No one had ever cared.

No one had ever cared until Angelo.

And when he tried to do something about it, they took everything away from him for it.

It wasn't right. The world wasn't supposed to this cold and cruel. It wasn't right. People weren't supposed to be used and discarded if or when they were no longer useful, no matter how pathetic, unlucky or weak they might be. It wasn't right.

And she couldn't stand it any longer.

She fell between the currents of the Veil once more, her entire body moving in the slipstream as the world crawled around her. She moved around and through the demons between the soldiers and the pride demons that beset them.

Her magic boiled within her, oozing out of her pores and overflowing out of her in a hot torrent.

The pride demon's arm was still moving from the impact of her shield throwing its attack aside only a half second earlier when she materialized from the ether in front of it.

It never had time to react as she appeared a step before it, the ball of fire spinning in between her cupped palms at her right hip. The magic swelled fiercely, tongues of wild flame licking out from the edges of the ball of fire that grew hotter and hotter until the as the flames melted from red, to orange, to a dazzling sphere of white.

By the time the demon flinched at her presence, Vell thrust her arms up toward its horned head and let loose the inferno.

Tongues of flame splashed backward as the magic connected with the demon's body, but the power and heat of the spell consumed it, obliterating everything that stood before it into smoke and ash.

The magic burned past the demon that was no longer there, fire spilling dozens of feet into the night sky as the spell coursed out of Vell, fueled by the roiling turmoil bleeding out of her. As the fire consumed what was left of the demon and the scorched and detached legs of the monster tumbled backward onto the ramparts, she cut the spell and pulled her hands back.

She scanned the destruction before her. The incinerated remains of the demon. The red, glowing, superheated stones of the wall to her left. The smoke that filled her nose with the rancid smell of burnt flesh.

Vell shook her steaming fingers in front of her and took a breath, not feeling winded in the slightest despite the rage of a spell that she never could have conceived casting. The way she had immolated the despair demon in the forest was pitiful nothingness in comparison.

The shades she had blown past on her way to attack the bigger fish had stopped between her and the Inquisition soldiers. Could demons fear? Vell didn't know. But if they could fear, she was pretty sure the shades were pissing themselves. As they should be.

They were frozen, barely able to react at all as she charged them, dismembering them one by one as if she were tearing apart a straw dummy in the Inquisition's training yard with her bare hands. The Veil cut, smashed and crushed them as she threw the force of the Fade through them one at a time.

It all seemed so easy. She moved so much faster than them. She hit so much harder than them. She touched a power so great that they could do nothing but stand before it and be torn to pieces by it. She reaped destruction upon them with seemingly no effort, her arms and legs and soul moving with no weight at all as she whipped them around.

And the Veil, the Veil followed her every move, snapping like a wave crashing ashore and then fading back into the infinite motion of its ocean.

She thrust her first through the body of the last shade that stood before her. The wind caused by the force blew across the Inquisition soldiers standing in awe under the shadow of the tower. The curled ends of the Templar's hair dangling just above her wide shoulders bounced as if she were standing in a field among a slight, springtime breeze.

Vell withdrew her hand back to her side and took another breath. How many shades had she just killed? She glanced around at the bits of black stuff melting away into green embers as it floated up into the air about Adamant like ash. Everything happened so fast that it was all a blur in her head. Her entire body felt barely there, just embraced in a coursing, infinite energy.

"Look out!" the Templar girl shouted, too late.

Vell felt the crack of the electric chains across her back and the energy coursing through her body as the attack raked her.

As the whips withdrew, she could hear the deep guffawing of the other pride demon down the ramparts from her position.

Vell's entire body had crouched slightly, her knees bending a bit before locking into place and her back arching out slightly so she could drop her head. Her hands clenched instinctively into fists as her teeth locked together and her tongue pressed to the back of her mouth to block any vocalization of pain from coming up her throat.

She did not scream, or cry out, or even grunt at the familiar pain.

It had taken years to train herself not to scream as the Templar's lash tore across her bare back. She had learned to swallow the spiraling fear that gripped her every time she felt her legs give out beneath her, as she watched the crimson streaks roll around her sides and drip down her abdomen and along the slopes of her hip bones. She had forced her eyes not to flow with tears at every blinding crack of the whip, as her hands clenched so tightly to the chains that held her to the wall until the rough metal chafed and cut her palms.

She would close her eyes as tight as she could and hold her breath every time she heard the leather tails whistling through the air before the crack they would make against her flesh. It had taken willpower upon willpower upon willpower not to give in to the agony. Even as the Templar stood at her side, screaming at the top of his lungs into her ears to try to break her, to try to make her crack and cry out, she gritted her teeth and bore the pain until it overwhelmed her consciousness itself.

It had taken scar upon scar upon scar over years for her to overcome the torment. But in that victory, Vell had cemented to herself that she would never again submit.

She straightened, slowly, as her nostrils filled with the smell of scorched leather. She processed the familiar ache of pain across her back. She lifted her arms and spread them backward to stretch her shoulder blades and move them through the sting of the demon's lash.

She turned, staring down the demon.

It flexed its arms out, bellowing with another cocky guffaw as purple electric bent across its body. It stomped its massive right foot down, shaking the ground beneath her. She could hear the Inquisition soldiers behind her shuffle with unease.

"You're going to fucking regret that," she growled coldly to the demon as she lowered her chin slightly toward her chest.

The demon responded with another prideful laugh as it lifted its misshapen, clawed right arm. The sphere of electric began to crackle around it, expanding several feet wide and growing in intensity. The demon laughed one more booming laugh and fired the magic ahead at her.

Vell raised her left hand, reaching out into the Veil and quickly feeling the ball of magic soaring toward her. Within the barrier, she could feel the edges of the magic, sense its shape and feel its intensity twisting through the physical world.

She twisted the Veil around her upturned palm like a cushion, slowing the magic rapidly as it approached her until it came to a crawl and stop. The swirling ball of lightning, nearly as tall as she was, hovered just before her face spinning and crackling.

At first, she hadn't understood how Ghi had seemingly plucked her magic out of the air as it if were some type of balloon. She had been too weak at the time, too out of tune with the true nature of the Veil. As she trained it had become more and more clear. Every spell was merely a physical manifestation of the Fade, pulled across the barrier. Once she could feel that and once she could move the Veil to her will, it became so clear.

Ghi had never caught her spell upon his physical hand. All he had done was wrap the Veil around it and smother it from existence.

Vell closed her fingers, tightening the noose of the Veil around the ball of spark until it fizzled and vanished.

If a pride demon were capable of feeling fear, she wondered if that was the moment this one felt it. It raised its other arm, summoning the crackling whips again and snapped them toward her.

Vell lifted her right arm, shielding herself with the Veil as she let the lash coil around her forearm. The sizzling purple energy buzzed, but couldn't touch her. She smirked as the demon tried to tug it back, but her feet held, rooted, as she anchored herself with the Veil.

"I told you you would regret that," Vell said again.

She screamed as she jerked her arm back with the aid of the Veil, letting the memory of countless torture sessions in the dungeons of White Spire fuel her strength. The pride demon staggered ahead, off balance as the electric whips faded into nothing.

Vell stomped her left foot down again to set it and rolled her body to the left. As the demon stumbled toward her, she lifted her right leg once more, bringing the kick around with a lightning-fast snap and set it down in front of her.

She lifted her right hand, catching the chest of the pride demon as it tumbled down onto her. She held it, staring at its hateful, black eyes and the razor sharp teeth dangling above her rainbow head.

The demon's body began to disintegrate from the midsection, pieces smoldering away as the glowing green line bisecting its body became clearer and clearer. The demon roared, but was otherwise unable to move as the rift energy consumed it up and down, slowly burning it away into nothing more than ash and smoke until Vell's hand held onto nothing at all.

She exhaled and her body suddenly felt heavy as the burning energy inside of faded away as quickly as it had come on.

She turned around to the Inquisition soldiers, seeing the reinforcements from the ground now just arriving. At their lead was the older Templar, followed by Jac and Malcolm and another dozen foot soldiers. Taesas, of course, was not with them.

"Jolene! Jolene! You're all right!" the Templar shouted, throwing down his shield as he rushed forward and grabbed the young girl into his arms. She dropped her own weapons, lifting her arms to squeeze around the midriff of her father.

Malcolm staggered forward toward her, looking over her shoulder at the remains of the glowing ash blowing away on the wind, before glancing back down at her.

"What in the fuck was that?"

"Malcolm, give her a min-" Jac tried to interject.

"No, fuck that," he said excitedly, his face caught somewhere between amazement, arousal and horror as he shoved the Orlesian back. "She just fucking… she just… That was a fucking pride demon!"

Vell lifted her hands and looked at them. They felt so heavy now. Even if she tried to do that again, she was pretty sure she wouldn't even be able to come close. How had she done all that, she wondered now?

Now that she was on the other side of it, it all kind of a felt like an orgasm. In the moment, she had felt something incredible and seen stars. She wasn't exactly sure what she had said or what kind of involuntary spasms had come out of her body. Now, she just felt tingly, tired and somewhat confused.

"I… don't know what happened," she said, snapping her fingers and looking at the small wick of flame that appeared, before shaking her fingers and extinguishing it.

The Templar pushed between Malcolm and Jac. He looked at the destruction standing around them and then looked down at her. His head bounced up and down just barely as he curled his lip, his eyes a little wet.

"You saved my daughter," he said quietly.

Matteo took a step forward and extended his arms, wrapping them around Vell's back and squeezing her close to his chest.

"I can't ever thank you for this," he said.

Vell shifted awkwardly at being pressed against his steel breastplate. The flaming sword of Andraste was pushed right up against her cheek as his mailed fingers unknowingly pressed against the slight burns across her back.

And then it hit her.

A Templar was hugging her.

She lifted her hands, too, and hugged him back.


	37. Chapter 37

**Thirty-seven**

"VIVIENNE!"

He screamed her name as he watched the last of the balcony overhanging the abyss begin to crumble.

He watched the forms of the Inquisitor and his allies fall toward the unending blackness. Their bodies tumbled downward amid the broken chunks of stone and debris as the entire structure collapsed.

He watched her feet go out from under her - how gracelessly her arms and legs seemed to flail as she was thrust into open air - as the stones fell around her.

The Inquisitor, below them all, fell first, his arms cartwheeling through the air in a futile attempt to stop himself from falling.

Taesas felt ill, stone cold as he stood at the edge of the wall, watching it all transpire before his eyes.

And then, a flash.

The burst of green light pulsed off Trevelyan's outstretched palm. The air beneath him split open in a disc, like fabric stretched over a barrel being pulled to either side from the middle. He felt a sudden rush of energy wash across him as the Fade bled into the world.

They fell into the green ring.

None of them, not Trevelyan or Hawke or Stroud, nor Vivienne or Warden Blackwall or the demon-ghost they called Cole came out the other side. The stones falling vanished too, dropping into the disk that had opened beneath the Inquisitor.

And with a flash and a crackle, the ring vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

The debris that still fell tumbled downward, stones bouncing and knocking off one another as they dropped toward the abyss. They continued to fall, until they vanished into the darkness below, unlike the humans and the pieces of the walkway that had fallen just before it.

Taesas' eyes darted around the fortress, to the walkways and pillars that surrounded the now-destroyed ledge. He looked for any sign of any of them. Perhaps the Inquisitor had opened some sort of gate, that might have spit them elsewhere into Adamant. Such portals were only theoretical but, despite the failings of many mages attempting to create them, the calculations and reasoning used to postulate their existence had held up to rigorous examination.

He couldn't see them anywhere near the ledge where they had fallen. He stood, his hands gripping tightly to the lip of the wall, for a few seconds longer in silence. He continued to spin his gaze around, looking for any of the same green fire, feeling with his sixth sense for any disturbance in the flow of magic.

He saw nothing. He felt nothing.

Perhaps it had dropped them elsewhere?

He turned, darting back along the upper walkways of the fortress, back the way he had come as he slipped away from the central yard to follow behind the Inquisitor and his company as they chased the Warden Commander and the Magister deeper into the fortress. He had quickly moved from corner to corner, keeping himself shielded from the dragon's gaze as it circled about Adamant and swooped down to belch its breath of chaotic energy at its Magister's pursuers.

He came back to the walkway overlooking the central courtyard, where the Wardens and Inquisition forces now stood at an uneasy standstill. Taesas quickly glanced around, searching the upper levels for any sign of Vivienne or remnants of the green light he had seen.

His gaze whipped around the towers, seeing no one else standing atop them. Wardens stood, bows lowered, around the upper walkways. Below, he scanned quickly over soldiers, dismissing the pointed helms of the Inquisition and the winged helms of the Wardens. He saw blue and white tabards and the pale green of Inquisition.

Vivienne was always unmistakable in a crowd. Her ebony skin, her tall and perfect posture, the wide, flamboyant collars, her luxurious and pointed henins, none of them could be missed when she entered a room. At the balls and banquets and fetes and parties and conferences, she commanded the eyes of the entire gathering wherever she went. If there was anyone to pick out of a crowd, it was her.

And Taesas did not see her.

She had not fallen into the abyss. He had seen it with his own eyes. Yes, perhaps, in that moment of disorder, he might have missed one person falling amidst a pile of rubble. He might have missed two or three, even, but not six. And his eyes were not deceiving him when he watched chunks of stone, broken pieces several times larger than any man, vanish into the light.

The stones that fell after it fell like stones should. The ones that had come before, no, they had gone somewhere else. Vivienne, she had gone somewhere else with them.

The light. The light had been green. The spark had come from the Inquisitor's hand. The phenomena had started with him.

The mark, the Anchor, he could point it at the rifts and close them. The Elder One had come seeking it at Haven. The Elder One who had caused the Breach, he came seeking it at Haven because he wanted to reclaim it in order to reopen the massive tear in the sky. The Inquisitor had the power to close the rifts, but the Elder One had not sought that power.

He had sought the power to open the rifts.

Taesas glanced down to the bottom of the yard, where the Inquisition soldiers had pushed the Wardens away from the bending, twisting form of green light that shifted over the platform. The rift was large, larger than any Taesas had encountered to this point.

It was stretched so far out, its barrier between the physical world and the Fade so thin that even from where he stood atop the tower, he could see the massive demon moving on the other side of the tear. The Magister, the Wardens, they had been so close to opening the tear a bit wider and bringing through the monster that awaited on the other side.

The vivid green color that shone off it was the same as the light that pulsed from the Inquisitor's hand. They were one and the same, because the rifts and the Anchor were linked. And as he fell, he had pointed his hand downward into the empty air beneath him.

A rift.

It was a rift.

The Inquisitor, in his free fall, knowingly or unknowingly, had opened a rift beneath them.

Taesas began to march toward the staircase down, descending back toward the yard as he thought.

The rifts. Where did the rifts go? When they formed in the countryside, the tears in the Veil belched demons. They were not unlike more traditional tears in the Veil that mages sometimes caused and that Templars or mages could mend. The rifts could not be shut by such orthodox means, but they were the similar to those tears.

The demons could come through because the tears were a doorway into the physical world. The other side, the other side of those doorways was the Fade. The demons could only come through there and manifest into a physical form because they were tethered to the energy that bled out of the Fade. Even the demons that spawned from the rifts were tied to it. They could only move so far from the tiny breaches before the energy that leashed them drew them back toward it.

If the Inquisitor had truly opened a rift, there was only one destination it went.

The Fade.

Taesas stopped as he came to the bottom of the stairs at the final destination of his rapid chain of thought. He felt his stomach roll over and a sudden cold shock run through his body.

Mortals could not exist in the Fade.

When a mage entered the Fade, it was only the consciousness that went there and manifested itself into what appeared to be a physical shape. But the body stayed where it was, whether lying asleep in bed, in the enchanting chambers, in the summoning circles or upon the floor of the Harrowing chamber. The body never went beyond the Veil because it was incapable of crossing the barrier.

Or was it?

The Chant of Light spoke of the ancient Magisters who had breached the Veil and walked physically upon the lanes of the Golden City, blackening it with their impurity. There were volumes and volumes of treatises and debate on the nature of the stories of the breach of the Golden City.

 _In secret they worked  
_ _Magic upon magic  
_ _All their power and all their vanity  
_ _They turned against the Veil  
_ _Until at last, it gave way._

 _Above them, a river of Light,  
_ _Before them the throne of Heaven, waiting,  
_ _Beneath their feet  
_ _The footprints of the Maker,  
_ _And all around them echoed a vast  
_ _Silence_

 _But when they took a single step  
_ _Toward the empty throne  
_ _A great voice cried out  
_ _Shaking the very foundations  
_ _Of Heaven and earth:_

 _And So is the Golden City blackened  
_ _With each step you take in my Hall.  
_ _Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting.  
_ _You have brought Sin to Heaven  
_ _And doom upon all the world._

Was the Canticle of Threnodies literal truth or was it merely allegory? Taesas had read convincing arguments upon both sides. The Chantry scholars disagreed whether the passages meant that their physical feet had pressed against the physical walkways of the Golden City itself, or, whether, as they understood travel in the Fade now, it was only they had found a way to send their metaphysical forms into the Golden City, a feat that, to this day, had never been replicated despite the trying of many, many daring scholars who viewed the floating black fortress in the sky and found themselves unable to resist the temptation to get there despite its ominous history.

No scholar working in the Andrastian Chantry disagreed, however; that the intrusion be it physical or not had led to darkspawn and Blight upon Thedas. Nothing good had come from intrusion into the Fade.

He scanned his memory, trying to recall the details of the Canticle of Silence, one of the heretical, dissonant verses he had been lucky enough to read at one point outside the watchful eye of the Templars and the Circle.

It had been years since he laid eyes upon that verse and the exact details were lost to his memory. But even still, he did not recall it being any more clear than the Chant. It told a slightly different story of the Magisters and their entry into the Fade, but the basics all were the same as far as he could remember.

The Magisters enter the Fade. The Golden City is blackened. The magisters are punished and cast down from the beyond.

But the religious texts were just that, religious texts. They would have been written, changed and sanitized over the centuries to fit the immediate political needs of the leaders. At the core they told the stories of creation and of prehistory, but Taesas held no illusions that despite his belief and vigor for the Chantry, that neither it, nor the Imperial Chantry, did not tell a story that also served their political purposes.

Could they have been wrong? Was it still possible? The rise of the Chantry and the fall of Ancient Tevinter had ensured that never since had there been the power and resources to make another attempt to breach so deeply into the Fade.

And the rifts. The rifts were unlike any magic Thedas had seen before. The Inquisitor, the Inquisitor himself might be proof that what was once thought to be impossible might not be. Witnesses, multiple witnesses at the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes had said they say Trevelyan emerge from _inside_ the Fade. They had seen a woman, they had heard her voice call out when he emerged from the Breach itself.

If it had been one man, perhaps, the claims could have been dismissed. But it was many. It was on that belief that Seeker Pentaghast had detained him in the beginning. It was on that belief that people flocked to Haven, on the belief that he was the chosen of the Maker's Bride, sent directly from the world beyond to help them.

If that was true, if the Inquisitor himself was proof, then perhaps there was hope that Vivienne still lived.

Taesas stood before the rift, glancing into the shifting, glass-like light. He could see the jagged landscape there, not unlike the visions of the Fade he had perceived when he traveled there without the facade of spirits and demons creating the false reality. He looked at the demons, powerful demons, that he could see moving on the other side.

Within, he could feel the ice run through his veins as he spotted the form of Keeper Ishemaya on the other side, in her furs and leather and the stark lines of the vallaslin tattooed across her face. Her greyed hair, the wrinkled lines across her face and the knotted wood staff slung across her back were all just as he remembered from his youth.

It was not her, he knew. But what power must a demon possess to feel the deepest pit of his mind and deceive his eyes in such a way across the Veil itself?

If Vivienne and the others were there, somewhere inside the Fade within the sphere of this powerful demon, they would need all the aid they could get.

The rift before him appeared stable, at the moment, as he stepped closer to it. The Inquisition soldiers guarding it cast their gaze at him, but none stopped him as he approached the shifting shape before him.

He reached out his hand, his fingers moving toward the edges of the rift. His fingers dipped into the light, a slight static pulsing through his hand as it moved inside but not through the rift. It was not like water suspended weightless above the ground, where he could penetrate his fingers through it. It had no physical form, although he could gaze through it, it was only light, unable to be touched.

Taesas withdrew his hand quickly, before doing anything more to disturb what could become an unstable wound in the Veil, and stepped back from it.

It was useless. He could not walk into the rift even if he wanted to. He had known that, perhaps, before he even reached out to touch the rift itself. The scholars who had studied the Veil knew that it was not like a curtain that could be pulled aside so that one could walk between two planes. No, it was more like a bubble that was everywhere at once but equally nowhere. You could not perceive it, not until it was torn.

" _Tear. Veil."_

He had struggled to speak those words, forcing them between his lips through the incantations of Nethra that bound his mind and body in her lair within the Tirashan.

He had felt the weakness in the Veil there and knew that, with effort, the barrier could be broken. Tearing the Veil had revealed the demon that lived inside the fool girl, drew it out into the open where it had been able to destroy it. Where Vell had destroyed it.

Vell.

When they had first met it had been on the mission to Ceraux, to observe the experiments of the Collective. The Collective had warded off a dormant rift, much as this one appeared to be. And in their tampering, in their experiments they had connected to the rift.

And physically opened it…

Behind him, the last assault group was just now approaching, with Matteo and his daughter at the lead, with some of the remaining soldiers with them. All of the other rift mages were absent, perhaps left behind on the walls?

At the sight of him, Matteo stopped, placed his hand on his daughter's shoulder and turned her away from the plaza.

Taesas' group had encountered light resistance within the inner fortress, weak demons and frightened Wardens, that he and his soldiers had smashed with relative ease. They had arrived in the central plaza just after the Inquisitor and his men had confronted Clarel and the Magister.

He hurriedly moved across the courtyard to meet them stopping quickly before Vell.

"I need you to open this rift," he commanded.

"What?" she asked, wrinkling her stupid, rebel, malcontent face.

"I don't have time to explain," Taesas immediately followed. "At Ceraux, the Collective had opened the rift. I need you to do that to this rift, just enough so I can step inside."

Vell scrunched her nose even more. "What?" she repeated again, stupidly.

"The Inquisitor opened a rift and he and his party fell into it," Taesas explained quickly, losing his patience with her. She didn't need to know why. She just needed to do it. "I suspect they are in the Fade, in an area occupying the same physical space as the fortress.

"If I enter this rift," he said, pointing over his shoulder, "I can meet them and assist them."

Vell leaned slightly to the side and looked at the rift, then back at Taesas. "Are you fucking insane?" she asked. "You remember what happened when Julion opened that rift, don't you?"

"If we lose the Inquisitor, all is lost." That was true, although it was only a secondary reason to him. "It's a risk we have to take."

He could see that Vell immediately saw through that farce.

"It's fucking stupid, is what it is. And I don't even know how to open the rift, even if I wanted to," she said as her eyes grew serious and her voice grave. "Which I don't."

"Don't lie to me!" he shouted as he reached out, grabbing the collar of her jacket with his hand as he jerked her closer. "I know you know how. Now open the rift. That is an _order."_

His voice dropped to a grave tone, deeper and more practiced than any pitiful attempt at strength she could vocalize at him. His eyes locked into hers, boring down into her. This was no time for her childish rebellion. Lives were at stake and he would not stand idly by and let Vivienne perish within the Fade if he could possibly aid her.

Vell's eyes didn't flinch, holding his steely gaze with one of her own that was equally as stony.

"I don't take orders from you," she said with dripping disdain.

Her eyes broke his stare as she turned them down to his hand gripped around her jacket, then back up at him. "Now let go of me, before I make you let go." Her words were calm and hard, with no fear or uncertainty in them. It was a threat, spoken truly.

Taesas jerked his hand, shaking her body as screamed into her face.

"Open the fucking rift!"

She lifted both of her arms over her head, slamming her fists down into his forearm to break his grasp on her jacket. As his hand unclenched and he lost his grip, she was already raising her left foot, planting her boot into his midriff and pushing backward with a kick.

As his feet slid back across the dusty stones, he was already pulling his staff from his back. As he bent his ankle downward and jammed his foot into the ground to stop himself, he was already twirling the staff in his hand until the rounded end was out. He swung the rod across his body, the bludgeon whistling around as he drove the metal ball toward the side of her head.

She jumped back, a moment too late, as the edge of it made light contact with the side of her cheek, turning her head to the side.

He quickly pulled the staff back, spinning it in his hand to trade the rounded-end for the speared tip and tucked his back under his right arm. He lifted his left hand, summoning a barrier just as Vell turned back toward him, bringing a long, hooking punch from her right shoulder that she telegraphed an hour before she moved it a single inch. He pushed more mana into the shield as he set his feet, locking himself to the ground as his years of force magic training had taught him to do.

Taesas could feel the pressure on his arm as her rift magic strike collided against his barrier. As the milky shield gave wave and broke under the stronger blow, he pushed his hand forward at the elbow, firing his own wall of force toward her to repel the blow backward.

Vell staggered, likely not expecting him to be able to deflect her heretical magic and certainly not to counter through it. As she flailed, Taesas thrust his staff ahead, as straight and steady as years of only disciplined training could make, as he pointed it upward toward her left shoulder. She wore no armor, making it easy for the blade to pierce the leather of her jacket and begin to drive into the soft muscle at her armpit.

She recoiled backward as she felt the sting of his spear. He easily resisted the black entropic energy she sloppily tossed with her right hand toward him in an attempt to disorient him as she retreated a step. He closed the fingers of his left hand, snapping her in a flash of ice to chill and slow her as he steadily marched ahead. He could see the fire spreading up into her hands to try to shed the frost. His fingers traced the memorized pattern quickly, flawlessly as he tossed the glyph of neutralization down at her feet.

She seemed confused as the glyph lit, killing the fire in her palm but also breaking the ice that he had bound her with just a second prior. By the time she looked back to him instead of to her own spell, he was already whipping the blunt edge of the staff around again, wrapping it with force magic as he swung it through her lower legs, sweeping her off of her feet as she tumbled to the ground.

The Inquisition soldiers parted like a wave behind her, none of them, wisely, wanting to step between the Enchanter and his prey.

"I don't want to injure you," Taesas said as he dipped his staff toward her, lifting her body off the ground into a cage of spirit energy that held her in place, squeezing her just enough to elicit pain but not so tight as cause any serious injury. If she lost consciousness or died, she could not do as he asked. "Just open the rift."

He could see her trying to squirm and could feel the emanations of magic around him twisting strangely. Taesas could feel the turbulence in the connection between him and the Fade as he drew the mana through to maintain his spell. He had felt that before, at Skyhold, and knew it to be her drawing on the current of her heretical power.

Taesas tightened the grip of the crushing prison around her until her mouth opened with a silent gasp and he could see the muscles in her face and neck bulge at the strain of trying to resist.

"Do as I command!" he shouted again as he squeezed her. As much as he needed her, he couldn't help but take delight in the way her face twisted in pain as he crushed her with his magic. The vibrations across the Veil dissipated as he could sense her body fall limp, unable to withstand the force of his magic.

Were it any other situation, he might tighten the noose, crunch every bone in her body at once and let her fall into a bloody heap. It would be fitting payback for her dishonorable attack on him in the Tirashan, for the indignity she had thrown in his face the humiliation she had dealt him in the eyes of Vivienne.

He needed her, though, for this one moment.

"I…" she struggled to grunt as she cast her hot eyes down on him. "I won't…"

Taesas shook his head in disappointment, reaching deeper into the Fade, sensing her fading breath and quickening pulse, and prepared to take her one step further, right to the precipice of her own death. As she felt her life slipping away, panicked and frightened at the prospect of damnation, she would crumble and agree.

Even the best-trained bards begged pitifully for their lives when the pain grew too great and they could feel their end nearing. How many times had his enemies sent someone to kill him, only for him to turn the tables on the assassins, breaking them bit by bit until they spilled everything he wanted to know?

Vell would be no different. As he pushed her to the edge, she would submit to his wishes.

Taesas opened himself further to the Fade, letting the mana rush in as he prepared to increase the intensity of the spell. He could see Vell's hands trying to fold into fists once more, only for her fingers to quake and tremble and fall open once again.

He nearly choked as the air felt as if it were sucked out of his lungs.

His connection to the Fade was sharply severed, the flow of mana sputtering off as he lost control of the spell. Vell's body released from the cage and she fell to the ground, catching herself roughly on her hands and knees.

As Taesas swayed, bewildered, he felt a hand roughly grab the collar at the back of his breastplate, jerking him backward. It was a moment later that he saw the glowing white hand pressing against his chest as Matteo pushed him, walking him backward step by step away from the rebel.

His anti-magic swelled and Taesas felt as if he were being slowly sucked under the surface of a pool of thick mud. The strength sapped from his muscles and his legs grew shaky as the Knight-Lieutenant pushed him back, his face harsh.

"That is enough of this madness," Matteo said, applying a downward pressure that Taesas had no choice but to follow, bending at the knee as the Templar guided him to the ground with his powerful anti-magic. "I command you to stand down, _mage."_

There was bitterness in his voice. Taesas could not ever recall a time when Matteo had referred to him as "mage" before. When Templars said it in the Circles, when they said it like that, it was either a slur or a threat.

"Matteo," Taesas said, fighting to find his voice under the pressure of the Templar's power. "I have to save Vivienne."

Matteo did not relent at the plea as he reached down, wrapping his hand around Taesas's staff. He let it go, surrendering it to his friend. "Not like this," Matteo stated.

Taesas labored to breath, lifting his eyes as he watched Jolene help Vell to her feet and began to walk here away from him. He watched her go, knowing that his last and only hope of helping Vivienne went with her. If she would not open the rift, there was nothing else he could do.

If she died, what would happen next? All of the pieces in the Game would be thrown into turmoil. Her sudden exit would leave a massive vacuum in the upper strata. There would be many players seeking to claim the influence that became free at her removal. He couldn't be sure that he would come out ahead. He couldn't be sure that he wouldn't become one of the first victims of the realignment of power. Some of her power flowed through him, but too much of his flowed through her.

The First Enchanter's office in Montsimmard would be ripped from his grasp for sure. The humans who would take up the mantle would show him no love and no mercy. He would need to get out, to transfer elsewhere, somewhere where he could begin again and take advantage of the unsuspecting fools who would never see him coming.

But none of that would matter if the Circles never reformed, if Thedas burned if the Inquisitor perished with her. Without Vell, without his intervention, if they all fell in the beyond, none of it would matter. The Inquisition would begin to rot and die and the chaos they all sought to prevent would eventually overwhelm all of Orlais.

None of them, not Vell, not Matteo, could see all that was at stake. They were blind, foolish. They could stand now on a their simple moral, not realizing that by doing so they were dooming them all.

And yet, here he was. A mage, held to account by a Templar.

Once Matteo dropped his field, he could attempt to go after Vell once more. But to what end? To succeed, he would have to incapacitate or kill Matteo. He would have to end Jolene before she got a chance to summon her anti-magic against him. By now, Vell was certainly weakened to the point that, if he had to engage her again, she wouldn't survive another attack. He knew she would never willingly cooperate, not in the limited time that he would have to convince her to heed his way, if ever.

Taesas dropped his head, knowing that there was nothing more that he could do.

This game was completed. He was hemmed in, with no more moves available to him.

He resigned himself to yet another defeat.

"I am calmed, Matteo," he said, slowly taking a breath that he struggled to inhale under the weight of the anti-magic.

Matteo drew back his power and the anti-magic field dropped. Taesas sighed in relief as he felt the pressure lift off of him, as he felt his connection to the Fade restored. He took another breath before he slowly pulled himself to his feet. He ran his hands down the front of his robe, brushing the dust off of it. He extended his right hand out and Matteo returned his staff.

The Knight-Lieutenant gave him one more disappointed look and turned away without a word, walking back toward his daughter and leaving Taesas to himself. Taesas turned around, ignoring the glances of the Wardens and Inquisition soldiers who had watched him skirmish with Vell, but who were all too weak and scared to do anything to stop it.

They were judging him.

Let them.

When the demons were disemboweling them and they screamed for help or for the mercy of a quick death, he would certainly not be there to give it to them.

He looked at the rift once more, watching its shape bend this way and that as the green light bathed the plaza. Vivienne was somewhere inside of that rift, perhaps standing only a few feet away from him in the Fade, but separated by the impassable barrier of the Veil between them.

He turned away, not wanting to be here any more. There would be preparations to make, moves to plan and defenses to raise. If there were those who wanted to play the Grand Game against him, he would need to be ready to meet them.

"I can see him! I can see the Inquisitor!" a soldier shouted from the plaza.

Taesas turned around to see the edges of the rift twisting more rapidly, the light from within growing brighter. The edges began to buzz with electric as sparks burst around the breach in the Veil. The soldiers standing nearest to it backed away as an audible buzz began to emanate from the tear and the light grew so bright that the once opaque window was now a beaming pillar of whitish-green light.

There was a crack and peal of thunder. Taesas could feel the static running through his hair as he watched the rift. From the white, he could see a spot of black that expanded outward, growing wider as the barrier moved.

And, out of the rift, fell Trevelyan.

The Inquisitor stumbled forward, catching himself roughly on his feet as he tumbled out of the air and landed on the ground. Behind him came the others. Hawke was the second. Warden Blackwall crashed down onto his knees as he skittered out of the rift.

And then, from the Fade itself, emerged Vivienne.

She seemed to float, as if guided by gentle wings, as her heeled boots touched the ground softly. She didn't stumble or jerk. She merely touched the ground and marched forward as if she had just come down the grand stairway at the royal palace in Val Royeaux and entered the ballroom floor.

The Inquisitor turned back, lifting his hand and connecting to the rift, sending a powerful surge of energy ahead as the rift spun and crackled, fighting him until it collapsed inward and burst with one final flash, vanishing from existence.

Vivienne never turned her head, instead walking past the Inquisitor and away from the central plaza. Her chin lifted slightly and her eyes seemed to close, paying no mind to the common soldiers gawking at their incredible reappearance. The tap of her staff upon the stones and the click of her heels were all a perfect, rhythmic music to his ears.

She looked unscathed. She looked unshaken. She looked regal, beautiful, powerful, invincible.

Taesas rushed ahead to intercept her.

"Vivienne!" he cried out as he came to her side, still in some disbelief that she stood before him at all. "You're unharmed! I saw what happened after you fell from the walls and I had feared the worst! I-"

Vivienne interrupted him, lifting her left hand and holding it before his face to silence him.

"Don't be so melodramatic," she said dismissively. "Now leave me be. I have been through an ordeal and I am too weary to suffer your senseless disquiet."

Taesas stopped, silenced.

Vivienne lowered her hand and continued ahead without another word, leaving Taesas to himself.


	38. Chapter 38

**Thirty-eight**

Donal's skin was now a pale white and it looked so dry and brittle that it might crack and flake away from his cheeks.

The fat, bald-headed mage looked peaceful, content almost, as he lay on the stones of Adamant. In the gentle light of the rising sun, he almost looked as if her were sleeping after the long night of battle.

He was one in a line of dozens of bodies the Inquisition had collected and lined up next to each other. Some of them were wrapped from head to toe, likely due to wounds too grave to look at. Many of the others, like Donal, were left unshrouded so that people might come to identify, inventory and pay respects.

For the moment, Vell was the only one in this part of the line, left alone with the bodies of the men and women who had given their lives to seize Adamant fortress. She stood at Donal's feet, ignoring her own bloody bandage at her shoulder where she had been stabbed, instead only focused on his body.

Lying on his back, with his hands crossed over his stomach with his staff held between them, there were no visible wounds on his front, nothing to suggest that he had been hurt at all. And yet, he was clearly, undeniably dead.

Was it her fault?

She didn't want it to be her fault, but as she stared blankly at his body, there was a creeping sensation rising in her that told her yes, she was to blame.

She had gotten the sensation from the beginning that Catlyn was trouble. She had dismissed it as standard human racism, mixed with a bitchy ambition to supplant her as the leader of the rift mages. Catlyn didn't like her. That had been clear since the moment they first laid eyes upon one another.

But she didn't expect that would mean the woman would harm someone else. If Catlyn had come after her and her alone, it would have been different. Vell could have handled that. She had handled that, in fact. If no one else had gotten hurt, she wouldn't be standing here now, feeling as she did.

If she had sent Merin with Catlyn instead, would he be the one dead now? What if she had sent both Donal and Merin into the tower? Would they both be alive? Would Catlyn have still tried to strike, or would she have held the bloody knife and waited for a different opportunity?

When the fucking enchanter had told her what he needed her to do for the mission, he had left it to her to decide how to attack the tower. It was her call. She was the one who put Malcolm and Jac on the wall to get their foothold. She was the one who took it upon herself to clear the walkway toward the tower. She was the one who decided that Catlyn's rage and Donal's practiced skill would make them the best to clear down the tower. She was the one who decided not to drag the foot soldiers into it, for fear that they would get in the way or that they would get hurt in the process.

Solas had said this would be her trial. Adamant would show whether the rift mages were a threat or if they could be added to the list of the Inquisition's assets. Maybe that had been in the back of her head, too, when she gave the assignments. Maybe it was her pride and her desperation that made her put so much of the burden on herself and the others. Had she not been worried about whether they would have Templars at their throats upon their return to Skyhold, maybe she would have made a better decision.

She was their leader. They were hers to protect.

And Donal was dead.

She hated the way his face looked. For a dead man, he looked too fucking at peace. He didn't need to die. He didn't need to get stabbed in the back by one of his own in some mad grasp for power. His lips should be downturned, his eyebrows bent inward in a captured anger that would carry him to the pyre and beyond. If he crossed into the beyond and met Andraste and the Maker as the Chantry said he would, they should both be able to look upon his face and know that he was pissed and that his death was unjust.

Why didn't she know this was going to happen?

It had all happened once before.

"Tiptoeing, creeping in the darkness. Quietly, quickly slipping through the night-black hall. Not a second to waste. Templars changing their guard. She knows their rotations better than they do."

The quiet whisper tickled Vell's left ear, like a puff of cold air coming through the tiny crack in the wall during winter in White Spire. She remembered the small sliver of light that came in through the crack in the rafters above the library, in the special hiding place where she would meet Angelo.

"Door creaks too loudly as it opens. Sleeping on the bed. They all are sleeping but the dormitory is silent."

Vell glanced to her left. There was no one there. She could have sworn she felt someone coming around the corner. She turned her head to the right, but there, too, was no one. Her skin prickled, like the sensation of being watched.

"Beaten, bruised, bloodied but never broken. She wasn't alone any more. He made her feel wanted."

The whisper came into her right ear now and she turned her head again, expecting to see someone at her side. Still, there was nothing but air. Her heart quickened, a sudden anxiety pushing its way through her bloodstream. "Hello?" she asked quietly.

When she turned her head back, she jumped backward at the boy crouched just before the wall, poised above Donal's bald head. His clothes were ragged, his hair pale and straw-brittle. The large cap over his head shadowed his face as he reached his hand down, his fingertips touching lightly on the dead mage's forehead.

"It's not your fault," he whispered to her as he lifted his head up, his face nearly as pale and wan as the dead man's beneath him.

His words, when spoken, calmed her heart. She knew she should be alarmed, at a strange boy who appeared out of thin air and looked and felt as cold as death itself. But her body was not tense and the anxiety that should have been there was not.

"Who are you?" she asked as she tried to see his face. Even as she looked at him, the features of his face seemed indistinct. She could see his eyes, his nose, his cheeks, his mouth, but every time she blinked it was if she were looking upon him again for the first time.

"You didn't do anything wrong," the boy said. "You couldn't have helped him."

That seemed… right? No, it wasn't right. She could have done many other things, made many other choices that might not have ended with Donal dead.

"I could have saved him," she said.

"Not him," the boy said as he lifted his hand from Donal's forehead and and shook his head. " _Him."_

"Wha-"

"The pillow soft and fluffy. Mouth closed. Soft, pink lips. She kissed those lips. She kissed those lips and they kissed her back. He always tasted like cinnamon."

Vell could remember it, she could remember the moment he was describing. How could he know that? How he could know how she snuck through the unlit halls, sneaking up the stairs to the Tranquil dormitory, skulking through the darkness until she found bed where he lay? No one knew that. She had never told anyone.

Her eyes had been so heavy with tears the last time she looked upon Angelo. She couldn't bring herself to bend down to kiss him one last time, because she knew that he was already gone. She bit her own tongue bloody and pressed her lips together so that she wouldn't make a noise and be discovered by the Templars.

Angelo didn't even move when she pressed the pillow down over his face and pushed it down as hard as she could around the sides of his head. He didn't make a sound. His arms didn't try to fight her off. She held it down, gagging on the blood that trickled into her throat as she forced herself not to scream aloud and wake the entire fucking tower as she watched his chest rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall, then stop.

His entire body jerked on the bed, twitching for just a few seconds as she maintained the pressure, until, at the very end, his entire body grew still and moved no more.

She put the pillow back under his head as silently as she had pulled it out from underneath his oily, black, hair, and sprinted out of the Tranquil dormitory. The Templar coming into the end of the hall saw her bare feet kicking up as she reached the stairs and he shouted for her to stop.

She flew down the stairs, trusting her feet to find each step in the darkness as she tossed her head from side to side, throwing the tears out of her eyes with each shake. She could hear the Templar raising the alarm and the sounds of him chasing after her.

Vell scrambled up the bookcase in the corner of the library, moving aside the broken piece of ceiling as she slipped into her hidey hole and moved the piece back into place. The midnight air was nearly frozen inside the drafty crevice as she pushed herself into the corner, pressed her knees to her chin and wrapped her arms tightly around her shins.

She rocked back and forth, her mouth open as wide as she could stretch it as she screamed in silence to herself. The entire tower was being roused, Templars shouting as they searched the stairs, the library, the apprentice's dormitories. She could hear them shouting orders to one another, the yelling from the upper floor that the Knight-Sergeant wanted whoever it was found, _now_.

It was hours before the broken piece moved to the side and the Templar stuck his head up into the ceiling. The faint red light glowed off the phylactery bottle as he spotted her, curled up and shivering in the corner with red and sore eyes.

He grabbed her and pulled her down. She didn't have the strength to fight as he carried her down from the top of the bookcase and led her, still sniffling, down the familiar winding staircase down to the dungeon below White Spire. He led her into one of the cells at the top-most level, pushed her toward the thin bed in the corner, shut the door and locked it.

After three days with nothing but a plate of food pushed in once per day, the door opened again to the same red-robed Senior Enchanter Timeo and his thick black moustache. She rolled on the bed, curling back into a ball and facing the corner, not wanting to see the many who had tormented her by parading Angelo and his tranquility in front of her.

He didn't seem to mind that she didn't acknowledge him as he stood in the doorway.

"And here I thought you might actually change. I suppose that was foolish of me," the Enchanter chastised. "The Templars have finished their investigation. And although they came to the conclusion that they can not definitively say who smothered the Tranquil in his bed, I think both you and I know who is responsible."

Vell whimpered quietly to herself as she bit her lip, pushing her cheek further into the mattress.

"Maybe you hoped you'd get caught? That we'd execute you when we found out?" The Enchanter laughed. "You're gravely mistaken. Death would be too easy, too lenient."

She could hear his footsteps approaching and feel his breath as he leaned down over her curled body on the bed. He laughed quietly again as he held his face just inches from her upturned ear.

"No, I want to make sure you live," the Enchanter hissed. "You will live, knowing every day what you truly are, you foolish, stupid, worthless girl.

"You, _murderer._ "

He left. The Templars came shortly afterward and took her back to her bunk.

She couldn't recount how many times she thought about trying to end her own life.

She could have broken into the alchemy lab and drank all of the chemicals. She could have ripped her bed sheets, lashed them around her throat and hanged herself over the door to her chambers. She could have attacked the Templars until they had no choice to cut her down, or climbed to the top of the spiral staircase and thrown herself down several floors to the bottom, or surrendered to the demons that haunted her dreams nightly.

But if she gave in, they won. What Angelo had done to protect her, it would have meant nothing if she threw away her own life.

She chose to live, day after day after day, waiting, surviving, fighting. And when the time finally came, when the mages rose up in White Spire, she charged through the corridors and laid bare the full force of her suffering upon each of the six Templars she ended on her bloody exit from the tower.

It had never felt exactly like justice even as she rode the high coursing through her from kill to kill. Watching them die at her hand, while necessary and exhilarating, had done little to soothe the gaping ache inside of her.

"You don't have to hurt any more," the boy said. When Vell lifted her eyes up again, he was gone from above Donal's head. He reappeared just in front of her, slightly to her left side as he held his palm in front of her chest, just above her heart. "I can help you."

"No one can help me," Vell said.

"I can," the boy insisted. "I can make the pain go away. I can make you forget."

Vell watched as his hand began to glow and she could feel that same calming sensation settling across her body. She could feel the rot in the pit of her stomach, as if years of torment had all been collected in a concentrated ball.

Her childhood, trying to survive on the unforgiving streets of the capital. The Circle, the prejudice of her peers and the abuse of the Templars. Angelo, the love he had given her and everything that happened to tear him away from her.

She had carried it all inside of her for years, knowing that the longer she held it within, the more and more deeply it would seep into and stain every part of her existence. But she held it close, tattooing the memories into her soul until it grew cold and hard.

Somewhere, deep inside of all of that pain, were those few golden months she had stolen with Angelo. The way they would sneak around the Circle together, the stories he told her of ships and the sea, the hours he spent teaching her his forms, the exotic heat of his body as they held each other and exchanged their passions.

Even the horror she experienced as he smashed her Templar's head into the wall, inside of the bloody flower on the wall and the way the Templars beat him and dragged him away, she knew he did it because he truly believed that she was worth more than nothing.

"No," she said to the boy, taking a small step backward away from his hand. "I don't want to forget."

He looked confused almost as his fingers curled back into his palm. "But you're hurting. I can make it better. I can-"

"No!" she shouted more forcefully the second time. "Get away from me!"

Vell swiped her arm across her body to knock his hand away. As it passed before her, it struck nothing but air. Her body turned and she noticed she wasn't alone.

"I apologize," Inquisitor Trevelyan said as he took a step back away from her. He was ten feet away. When had he come up? She hadn't noticed. "I didn't mean to intrude."

Vell blinked and looked at her outstretched hand. What was she doing? Wasn't she talking to someone else just now? She glanced to her right and behind her, but didn't see anything. Her stomach felt tense, but she couldn't recall exactly why.

"Inquisitor. Wait, fuck," she said and shook her head, realizing she probably shouldn't have said "fuck" to the leader of the Inquisition like that. Was she going mad? What was she doing before he had walked up?

"Not you. I, I thought it was someone else," she said. She must have sounded insane. There was no one else there. There had been no one else there. "I'm sorry. I must have been seeing things. You don't have to go."

Trevelyan had shed his breastplate, pauldrons and gauntlets, revealing the sweat-soaked shirt underneath. He still wore his greaves and armored boots, but he didn't have his two-handed sword now either. His eyes were heavy and filled with fatigue. He looked exhausted, same as everyone else in the fortress. His left hand glowed dimly and she could feel how the Veil seemed to pull away and scatter from the mark across his palm.

She turned back toward Donal again, taking note of the orange glow that rose up his left cheek as the sun crept higher over the walls of Adamant. The other side of his head was still shrouded in a shadow.

Trevelyan stopped at her side and glanced down at the body before her. "Was he one of your mages?" the Inquisitor asked.

"Donal," she answered with a short nod.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Trevelyan said.

"I wish I could have been there to help him," she said.

Trevelyan nodded to that, as he glanced down the line of bodies of their soldiers. "A feeling I'm all too familiar with," he agreed.

There was a moment of quiet as Trevelyan shifted, clasping his hands behind his back as he looked over Donal's body, studying the dead man's features just as Vell had been doing for the however long it had been after she lost track of the time. At least an hour. Maybe two.

"I was informed that you disobeyed your orders," the Inquisitor said as he turned his head to the right to look at her.

"I-" Vell began to defend herself. This wasn't the time and she wasn't in the mood to be scolded, not even by him.

Trevelyan cut her off as quickly as she began. "And in doing so, you saved several lives, including those of Templars, I'm told."

Vell swallowed. Was that, praise?

"It felt like the right thing to do."

Trevelyan smiled. "That it was."

He looked back down at Donal again. "I know we can't save everyone," he said. "But we should always save the ones we can. The Inquisition is better for people like you."

Vell felt a knot in her throat. No one, no one besides Angelo, had ever said anything was better because of her. From the Inquisitor, of all people, that meant something, she knew.

In that moment, she knew this trial was a success.

They lost Donal, but she has successfully ensured the safety of the others and herself.

"Thank you."

He gave a nod. "I'll leave you to your mourning."

Trevelyn turned and began to walk away, but after two steps, Vell called out to him.

"Inquisitor?" Trevelyan turned his head. Vell glanced back down at Donal, then back to him.

"I never paid attention in the Circle," she said, somewhat embarrassed to have to admit that to the Inquisitor of all people. "Do you… do you know, any... any prayers? Or anything like that? For the dead?"

Trevelyan turned back, coming back to Vell's side at Donal's feet. He lowered his head and clasped his hands before him. Vell followed his lead, lowering her gaze and folding her hands together.

 _Though all before me is shadow,  
_ _Yet shall the Maker be my guide.  
_ _I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.  
_ _For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light  
_ _And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost._

 _I am not alone. Even  
_ _As I stumble on the path  
_ _With my eyes closed, yet I see  
_ _The Light is here._

 _Draw your last breath, my friends.  
_ _Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky.  
_ _Rest at the Maker's right hand,  
_ _And be Forgiven._

As he was praying, Vell had lifted her left hand and placed it over her mouth, holding her chin in her hand as tears began to leak from the corners of her eyes. Her chest shuddered as a small sob escaped from between her lips into her palm.

With each verse, it grew in intensity, the stream of tears falling thicker down her cheeks, her chest convulsing up and down with choppy breath, the quiet wailing that she couldn't seem to hold within her any more.

When the prayer was finished, she felt Trevelyan's hand lightly stroke her back as she wracked with sobs. She didn't recoil at his touch, his fingers unknowing of the hundreds of scars she carried beneath her clothes, permanently rent into her flesh. After a moment's consolation, the Inquisitor took his leave, without a word, leaving her to her grief.

She wept for Donal.

She wept for Angelo.

She wept for herself.

* * *

Vell rushed ahead, jogging up the long walkway and under the gate. She cut quickly through the yard, dashing up the steps into the main hall. She cut left, ignoring Solas' study as she hit the stairs, taking them two at a time until she entered the library.

She marched ahead toward the Grand Enchanter, who was sitting quietly in her chair reading another dusty book. Fiona glanced up from the page, closing the cover as she noticed Vell approaching.

"Vell, I'm glad to see you are back," Fiona said as she placed the book back onto the shelf and stood from the chair. "I had received word of the Inquisition's success at Ada-"

"Give me another assignment," Vell demanded as she stopped in front of the Grand Enchanter.

Fiona hesitated for a second, her eyes glancing at the tear in the leather in Vell's jacket at her left shoulder and taking notice of a new golden earring in her left ear that made it seven total.

"You should get some rest. It had been a long journey," Fiona said. "Then we can talk."

"No," Vell said firmly, although it didn't appear to shake the Grand Enchanter's poise. "I don't want to wait. Give me another assignment, now."

She curled her fingers into fists at her sides. She remembered Donal. She remembered the soldiers she saved atop the walls of Adamant. She remembered the Inquisitor's kind words and the prayer he had said for her to honor the fallen.

There was no time to waste. The enemy had been crippled, but not defeated. There were still Venatori and Red Templars, demons and darkspawns, rifts and the Elder One to stop.

There was still so much uncertainty, but there was one thing now, more than ever before, that Vell was sure of as she made her demand to Fiona once more:

"I want to help people."


	39. Chapter 39

**Thirty-nine**

She awoke with a gasp.

Again.

She blinked, recognizing the unremarkable ceiling of the room above her as her sleep-filled eyes adjusted to the dim moonlight creeping through the open window. Even with the cold mountain air flooding into the room, her nightgown and the sheets below her were saturated with sweat.

She swallowed, touching her fingers to her chest and feeling the cold perspiration beaded across her collarbone. She could feel her heart thumping in her chest as she tried to steady her breathing. She was in bed, safe.

The nightmares had not subsided or lessened in their vividity.

The first night after Adamant, Vivienne was not surprised when her entire body seemed to lurch off the bed in her imagined terror. After such an ordeal as she had been through, troubled dreams were to be expected. The second and third nights, she dismissed as lingering effects of the traumatic fall into the Fade and the horrors the demon had displayed against them.

After a week, she had mixed herself a sleeping draught in hopes of escaping the night hours in dreamless slumber. It hadn't worked. She continued to be plagued by the antagonization of her mind and the denizens of the Fade.

This was her sixth night since returning to her bed in Skyhold and, still, she awoke nightly in cold sweat and fear. If the dreams didn't abate soon, Vivienne did not know what could be done about it.

There was no feasible way she could seek answers in Skyhold's library without being spotted by Fiona or Dorian or any of Sister Leliana's agents constantly perched within the tower. There was no one she could ask, discreetly, because there was no way she could risk rumor spreading that she was struggling with nightmares. Even someone as tight-lipped and loyal as Helaine could not be fully trusted with such sensitive information.

No, it was her problem and her problem alone. If there was a solution to be found, she would have to find it herself, in time.

Vivienne slid out from under the sheets, stepping into the soft slippers at the side of the bed. She tossed the covers back to the foot of the bed as she touched the wick of the bedside candle, sparking it to life with a bit of magic. She hoisted it over the bed, looking at the darkened, damp circle in the center of the mattress where she had lain. She would have to have the chamberlain acquire her a new set of sheets on the morrow.

She quickly crossed the room, closing the shutters of the two windows in her chamber and drawing the curtains across them. Vivienne placed the metal chamberstick back down on the bedside table, then lifted the thin straps of the nightgown off her shoulders, letting the garment fall down her body to the floor. She bent and picked it up, folding it three times into a small square, as she stepped to the wardrobe.

She placed the damp, folded gown on the shelf, retrieving the long, black satin robe from a hook. She slipped her arms into the sleeves, shivering at the chill of the room, before closing the robe around her and tying it at the waist with the belt. Vivienne pointed her finger at the dark hearth in the far wall and within a moment it sparked and began to burn, filling the room with a new heat and a flickering orange light.

Vivienne crossed to the door, unbolting the latch. She cracked it open, sticking her head out into the night time cold. The stars were out in a mostly clear sky, with the sliver of moon providing a dull glow across the interior of Skyhold. The soldier was standing just to the right of her doorway. She was glad to know her request to Commander Cullen to have the guard relocated closer to her quarters had been favorably considered.

"Sentry," she called to him, snapping him out of what was no doubt a midnight haze of boredom from his stationary post.

"Yes, Enchanter? What do you require of me?" he said with a crisp salute.

She was pleased that Commander Cullen had found a man of suitable discipline and respect, too, to man this post. "Be a dear, go the Herald's Rest and fetch the Iron Bull for me," she said. "Tell him I have an urgent matter I must discuss with him and that it cannot wait."

"Yes, Enchanter," the sentry said, snapping another salute. "Right away, Enchanter."

She closed the door and returned to the wardrobe, opening the bottom drawer and retrieving her porcelain teapot, two cups and two saucers, two spoons, the small, hand-carved ornate box, and the silver tea tray.

She placed all of the items on top of the tray and carried them to the small table. She removed the lid from her pot, held her hand over the open hole as she let conjured water pour between her fingers until it was full, and then placed the top back on it. She pressed her fingertip to the tray, setting the small flame rune underneath the pot to begin the process of boiling the water.

She opened the lid of the small box, flipping through the small paper pouches filled with fragrant tea leaves as she considered what might be appropriate for tonight. She preferred a more potent tea, imbibed without sweetener, but judging by the moon she had spied in the sky, it was still early night. Vivienne hadn't totally abandoned the idea that she might try to sleep again, despite her earlier failure, and settled on a pouch of the expensive white tea.

Outside of the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the slight hiss she could hear beginning in the teapot, her chambers were quiet. It reminded her of her quarters at the top of the tower in Montsimmard. When her thick windows were closed, she heard nothing of the city beneath her. She never heard the noise of the tower below her, either, due to the heavy walls and thick floors that separated her from the rest of the tower.

Sometimes she would leave the door to the balcony slightly ajar at night on the hope that she might hear quiet birdsong when she awoke to the rays of the sun creeping through the curtains.

Skyhold continued to be almost unbearably drab and functional, in comparison.

"Enchanter," the voice came through the door after two quiet knocks upon the wood. "I have the Iron Bull with me, as requested."

"Come in," she said loudly enough so she could be heard.

The door handle turned and it swung open quickly. The Qunari stepped inside but held the door half open behind him.

"Close the door, Bull," she commanded. "And join me for some tea."

Bull looked at teapot, then glanced quickly around the rest of the room before he gave the door a soft push until it closed and clicked behind him. He crossed the room, pulling the other chair out from the table and sitting down gently upon it despite being too large for the seat and too large to pull it back underneath the table.

"Summoning me in the middle of the night, dressed in a thin robe?" Bull said. "People are going to talk."

Vivienne lifted the lid off the now-boiling teapot, spilling the loose leaves into the water as she closed it up again. She opened the box and slid the empty paper packet back inside.

"Tell me if you hear any such baseless rumors and I'll ensure that those spreading them stop. Immediately," Vivienne said with a humorless cold. "You reek of ale."

"I _was_ drinking with the Chargers, before I was called away, ma'am," he said as she began to carefully pour two cups of tea, tipping the pot gently to keep any of the leaves from escaping the internal strainer and slipping out.

"I suppose they have continuing reason to be joyful," she said, leaving it at that. Bull would know her meaning, that _she_ had voiced her opinion to save his men at the cost of losing the cooperation of the Qunari. She cared little about his mismatched band of mercenaries, but that the Inquisitor had honestly considered an alliance with the brutal heathens was just another disappointment in a long list of disappointments she had with the man. "And have the attempts on your life abated?"

"Not yet," Bull said with a shrug. "They'll get tired and give up soon enough. Qunari don't like to waste resources, and they're wasting resources every time they send another killer here."

Bull tapped the table with his hand and rocked back in the chair. "The last one, though, a pretty little redhead. I figured she was probably _katari_ when she showed up at the tavern, but I can't say no to a good redhead. Literally had my pants down when she finally pulled the basilisk needle on me. Had to break her elbow, then her neck," he said with a quiet, longing sigh. "A shame. She was a pretty one."

"Darling, that's not appropriate conversation for polite company," she said as she slid a cup of the tea over to him on the saucer, with the small spoon resting gently on the plate.

"You're the one who asked," Bull reminded her as he reached down, picking up the cup around the edges with his fingertips like a massive claw. He lifted it and placed it in his other hand, the small porcelain cup looking ridiculously undersized in his giant hand.

Vivienne scowled at his uncouth manners as she lifted her saucer in front of her, gently picking up the cup by the small looped handle, sparing a small blow over the rim of the cup to cool it, then placed it to her lips and took a small sip. She restored the cup on the plate, then lowered the plate back to the table.

Bull cupped his glass in his palm, then pushed it to his lips, tipped it back and drank it all in one gulp as if he were shooting liquor at the tavern with the other drunkards. He stifled a belch - with his mouth closed, at least - then put the cup back down onto the table, empty.

"So what's this really about?" Bull asked, cutting to the point.

"Whatever do you mean, Bull?" Vivienne asked as she lifted her saucer and cup again for another sip. The tea was perfect. Fragrant, yet subtle. Understated, but with a full flavor.

"This is the third time you've called me for tea in the middle of the night," Bull said, then paused. "This week."

Vivienne placed the cup down again. "And you've showed up all three nights, darling," she noted, without answering his question.

"I enjoy a good… whatever that was," he said flicking a finger against the empty cup, producing a quiet "ding" noise. "You haven't called for anybody else."

"I find you interesting, Bull," she said.

"No, you find me useful. There's a difference," the Qunari said. He was a bit shrewder, perhaps, than she anticipated. "Me, on the other hand, I find you interesting, Viv."

"I believe I told you-"

"Not you call you that," Bull finished for her. "Let's cut the crap. I'm willing to play your cutesy Tamassran game in front of the others. But right now, it's just you and me. And you're not the only one who has eyes and ears all over Orlais."

That was rather forward of him, Vivienne thought. Too forward for her liking. She didn't dignify him with a response, instead lifting her cup again to her stern face, taking another small sip.

"I'll be the first to admit that I'd be really screwed up if I fell into the damn Fade with all those demons," Bull said as he lifted his right leg, crossing it onto his left thigh.

Vivienne placed her cup back down, empty, and began to pour another from the teapot as she ignored his musing. She picked up the spoon and gave the slightly yellowed tea a stir before placing the utensil back on the saucer.

"On top of it, things haven't been going your way recently, have they?" Bull said with a smirk out of the right side of his mouth. "But there's no one you can tell. No one you can talk to. No one you can trust. At the top, you're all alone, without much room to stand and a long, long way down if you stumble."

She hadn't ever been alone, truly, until recently.

Her Bastien had always been there, the singular soul in all of Thedas who knew her and knew her mind and had unfettered access to all of it. With him, an intellectual equal, a compatible mind, a true, genuine love, she could remove the masks she wore and expose her true self.

She had never anticipated it to be so when she first crossed his path with a mind to entice him at the Wintersend ball all those years ago. She had been nothing but a strong will and an ambitious but naive mind then. He was a font of influence, a man who had the power to shape the Empire itself and had. Orlais had survived the incompetence of Florian and the deft but ultimately unsustainable scheming of Celene because of his steady, guiding hand leading the Council of Heralds.

Even though he had supported Grand Duke Gaspard to succeed Florian, he was such a man that even the Empress, once ascended, dared not to touch him.

For twenty-five years she had stood at his side to grant him counsel and succor. He had talked strategy with her, soliciting her opinion on matters of the nobility and plotting, predicting and talking through scenarios that could foreseeably occur. She had relied on his intelligence and influence to help her climb through the tower at Montsimmard until she sat atop the Circle. Together, they were untouchable.

And what had started as purely an effort to social jump had developed over the long years into a powerful, true love for her Duke.

She still woke up daily, longing for warm spring mornings when she would stir in the bed in his estate at Ghislain to the sensation of a gentle breeze, the fragrance of the flowering trees in the garden and the gentle stroke of his fingers across her cheek.

Had she not had to do what was necessary for the Circle by serving the Inquisition, she might have stayed at his bedside during his sickness, even though watching him wither before her eyes had torn her in half.

No, that wasn't totally true, she knew. A part of her had so quickly tied the Loyalists to the Inquisition so she could flee Ghislain, so she would not have to subject herself to daily to the reality that Bastien was wasting away.

She had done what she could for her Duke. In the end, there was only so far magic, political power and cunning could go in the face of inevitable death.

Vivienne sipped her tea now, raising her eyes from the cup as she held it before her mouth in preparation to take another sip.

She was mistaken to have taken Iron Bull for the submissive, placating servant he pretended to be. She had known that he was Ben-Hassrath and that just because he stomped around inconspicuously through Orlais with a broadaxe slung over his shoulder didn't also mean that he wasn't a spy, a sneak and a liar.

She would not make that miscalculation again and she would certainly not call on him in the middle of the night again. She would have to carefully consider if there was anyone else in Skyhold willing to answer a midnight summons, if made.

Taesas no doubt would come running if she called upon him, but she wanted to see him least of all after the way he had embarrassed himself at Adamant. To lash out in such a pitiful display in front of both the Inquisition soldiers and the Wardens reflected poorly upon him, which reflected poorly upon her. She had saved what face she could in the moment, despite the damage he had done that was already beyond repair.

She could recover from his follies, but of late he was proving that, when the stakes were at their highest and her hand was not there to guide him, he was less reliable than he imagined himself to be.

The Game was changed without Bastien there at her side, but together they had built themselves an empire, one that could not be toppled by something so trivial as death. Men and women were removed from the field daily and yet it all persisted. There was little threat of everything unraveling at a few missteps and complications.

"Tell me, Bull, how could you claim to know anything of true dominance, having never been on top yourself, dear?" she asked. "Pawns cannot presume to profess to knowing what it is like to be queen."

Bull laughed at the notion. "Even pawns can trap and topple the queen," he reminded her.

He picked up the teapot and poured himself another cup of the tea, before setting it back down upon her silver tray. He picked up the cup more delicately this time, showing a completely different mannerism now as he touched it to his mouth and sipped it politely, taunting her.

"Besides, I know a thing or two about what it's like to have the pressure destroy you," Bull said, as he set his cup back down gently.

Vivienne read his face. He was being sincere, as far as she could tell. She lifted her cup again. "Go on."

"I served the Qun in Seheron before coming to Orlais. Protecting the natives, killing the 'Vints, taking care of the faithless Tal-Vashoth, and keeping my eyes open Fog Warriors. You're never too far from your next ambush or the next time you're getting ambushed on that filthy chunk of rock," Bull explained.

"The Ben-Hassrath usually don't leave their agents on Seheron for more than two years. The island messes with your head after a while. Too many good people come back broken forever," Bull said. "But me, I was good at what I did there. _Really_ good. Every time the Ben-Hassrath tried to recall me, I convinced them to let me stay a little longer, until a little longer dragged on to eight years."

"At the end of it, the rebels forced a friend of mine to poison half my unit. He got caught in the middle of the knife fight that followed," Bull said. "Then the rebels poisoned a school full of children, not for any tactical or strategic gain, but just because they could. I wasn't going to let that stand. I rooted out the Tal-Vashoth bastards that did it and took them apart piece by piece."

Bull sipped his tea again and stared into Vivienne's face with his single, grey eye.

"When you're alone in the jungle, literally sitting on top of a throne of corpses reaped by your own hand, you get this moment of clarity when you realize you can't go on like that."

Vivienne chuckled at the conclusion of his story. It wasn't the reaction she expected most would have, but hyperbole amused her. Besides, a deft player of the Game always kept his or her own hands clean.

There was no pile of dismembered bodies for her to sit upon, because, as far as the magistrates and nobles could prove, Vivienne had never once killed another citizen of the Empire.

"And therein lies the difference between you and I, darling," she said, dismissing his parable, such as it was.

The demon had taunted her such similar, petty notions. The Nightmare had suggested that she was primed to fall, too old and too weak on her own to maintain all that she had built. She had looked upon the demon's graveyard and beheld the filthy headstone it had shaped to try to sap her resolve.

Irrelevance?

The notion itself was preposterous.

These dreams would pass in time. In the meantime, they were a temporary nuisance, one that she would need to find another way to tolerate for the near future. Tea with the Iron Bull would not be a method she would try again after this evening.

"They call me Madam de Fer for a reason, dear," she said.

"I do not break."


	40. Chapter 40

**Forty**

She clearly did not appreciate being led, hands bound, before the gathered court of the Inquisition.

Catlyn squirmed the entire way, then when they shoved her before the dais, she tossed her hair and tried to adjust the wrinkles in her dress despite her hands being tied in front of her.

Taesas stood on Vivienne's balcony on the back end of the great hall, his palms resting lightly on the stone railing, watching with some amusement at the quiet chatter around the edges of the room as they watched her marched past, leaning person to person to whisper about her. If the Game ever manifested itself as a beast, that quiet hiss would be the sound it made just before lashing out and devouring prey.

Vivienne stood next to him in all her finery, wearing her silver half-mask over her face. Today she had chosen her golden staff, topped with the figure of the prophet Andraste. This was her garb of war when she needed to do battle in the court and not in the field. She had stood silently through the judgments that had passed earlier in the morning.

He doubted she would be silent for this one.

"We bring before you the mage Catlyn Bresna, previously of the Circle of Ostwick, most recently one of the mages of the rebellion recruited at Redcliffe Castle, your worship," the Ambassador announced throughout the hall as she read from her tablet and scribbled with her pen. "She stands accused of murdering one of her fellow mages during the siege at Adamant, Donal Sesterion of the Circle of Cumberland, as well as the attempted murder of Vell of White Spire who was charged with leading her unit during the assault."

The Inquisitor leaned forward upon his throne. "Bresna?" he asked. "I know your family. At one point there was talk that I might be wed to your older sister. Evalee, correct?"

Taesas watched as Catlyn bowed her head. "Yes, your worship. She was crestfallen when the negotiations fell through," she said with sweetness. Taesas wished he had known that bit of information before all of this had transpired. It could have been useful.

"And yet we must meet under such grim circumstances," Trevelyan said as he let the moment pass quickly. "To kill one of your own, a man who had worked closely at your side for weeks. What could you possibly have to say for yourself?"

"Your worship," she began as quickly as he stopped talking. Obviously she had practiced her pleading over and over again while awaiting in Skyhold's deep dungeon. She had little else to do. "I cannot deny the horrible deeds I have done, only that I wish I had not done them. I allowed myself to become trapped in the machinations of another, a vile plotter and scheming who used me for his own dark purpose. He threatened me and my family back in Ostwick. He said that if I did as he bid, that he would settle my father's debt. He convinced me that I would be judged harshly by the Maker for practicing such vile and heretical magic. I am not to proud to admit that I let myself be charmed by this snake, bent to do his bloody work. I know it was wrong and I don't know what I was thinking to allow myself to be manipulated so deeply."

She wiped tears from her eyes and sniffled as she stopped her rambling. He was impressed at her ability to fake those tears. It was poorly executed in comparison to some displays he had seen throughout the Empire, but she could only do as well as her limited skill would allow.

Taesas had expected she was mostly likely to take the route of groveling infant when faced with her crimes. A part of him, at first, had thought she might be the type to stand before the Inquisitor in bold defiance. But although she feigned toughness, he knew truly she was spineless and weak.

"Your worship, I know I must be punished for what I have done. I know that I am responsible, that I was too powerless to stand up and do what was right in the face of this manipulation," she said. "But I implore you, please, you must also punish the man who did this to me. You must hold Enchanter Taesas to account!"

He could feel a surge of power rush through his blood as the gallery turned, their eyes cast up toward the balcony where he stood. As their gazes fell upon him, he lifted his hands from the railing and clasped them behind his back.

"Is this true, Enchanter?" Trevelyan said loudly, his voice echoing through the tall ceiling to the balcony.

"Absolutely not, your worship," he said loudly and clearly so that everyone in the court could hear him. "Although I have my disagreements with the rebel mages and deep concerns about the so-called 'rift magic' being practiced, I would never condone such senseless, brutal thuggery against another person."

"You liar!" Catlyn shouted as she jumped from the floor. The guards reached out to restrain her as she continued to shout at him as they fought to calm her, her petty insults lost against a rising din of the court as they broke into chatter over her accusations until the herald at the back of the hall stamped the pole of his great axe down onto the ground three times to restore order.

Taesas glanced to the side at Vivienne, who did not turn to regard him at all. She still stood tall and unmoving, a regal statue emanating refinement, class and pride to all who looked upon her.

"Your worship," the Ambassador broke in. "We were made aware of these accusations by Madam Bresna prior to this appearance. Our agents have thoroughly investigated them and found no evidence of their validity. Outside of their assignment together at Adamant, there is no proof that the Enchanter and Madam Bresna had ever had any contact together or of financial promises made and kept. In fact, I received word just this week that Lord Bresna has been declared bankrupt and the council of lords in Ostwick is in the process of stripping her father's titles and claims and liquidating what little assets he has remaining."

"What? No! That's impossible!" Catlyn said again. "He promised me that he would pay my father's debt! He was arranging for money to be sent from Orlais!"

"There is no evidence of any such arrangement," Ambassador Montilyet repeated to the Inquisitor. "We also thoroughly investigated the Enchanter and his connections and found that no wealth to his name or to any of his closely known associates has been transferred to the Free Marches."

And there was no evidence of his meddling in Ostwick, because he had arranged it through multiple level of proxies that would be nearly impossible to trace back to him without intimate knowledge of the chain it had taken to get to the east of the Marches.

This barely even qualified as playing the Game. Even the most blushing girl with a fantasy of intrigue knew the importance of keeping one's hands clean and the trail as cold and disjointed as possible. Truth couldn't be called truth if it rested under the specter of doubt.

He knew Catlyn spoke truly, but without being verifiable, it wasn't truth to anyone else. Every word she spoke was plausibly deniable. No one in the great hall could say with certainty that he was responsible. Even Vivienne - who most of anyone would know that he likely had done what this stupid, naive, foolish girl said he did - even she could not say with any provable certainty that he had.

And so, Catlyn Bresna was cornered, captured and removed from the Game.

The Inquisitor placed his hand to his forehead now as he considered the appropriate sentence. As Taesas glanced at Vivienne again, he now saw the smile creeping up her lips. Both she and Taesas knew that this was the moment they had both been waiting, when the Inquisitor was faced with the error of his ways.

"First Enchanter Vivienne," Trevelyan called from his throne, as they both expected he would in this moment. "Tell me, what do you think would be an appropriate punishment for these crimes?"

"This woman is a murderer and a threat that must be dealt with harshly," Vivienne declared to the room with steely conviction. Her body did not move at all, only her lips, but her counsel filled the entirety of the great hall. "She wields a powerful and little-known weapon, Inquisitor. If you were to order her held, there is no guarantee that the Templars would be able to keep her in captivity, because they have not had any opportunity to learn about this knew magic and find a ways to protect against it should it be used against them or any one of us. It has been shown that even amid the neutralizing power of the Templar Order, these rift magics are still able to summon their spells for attack.

"Maker forbid if she were to succumb to possession, to think of the destruction she could potentially unleash upon innocent people."

This was the gift he had delivered to Vivienne. This was the end game of his interference with Catlyn and the expectation that she would fail. Whether she had been captured at Adamant or killed by Vell or the others, the result was the same. Vivienne could use it to drive the point to the Inquisitor that his experiment was folly and that he had created a radical that could not be trusted and could not be controlled.

The rift mages could not be contained and, therefore, were a threat that could not be allowed to persist.

"If this were my Circle, no, any Circle, the punishment would be clear," Vivienne said. She lifted her staff, slamming the butt of it into the floor. "The Rite of Tranquility must be invoked."

Where he might have expected a burst of chatter to erupt, Taesas was surprised that there was very little, only the slightest of murmuring as the courtiers took in her words.

Good. Perhaps they realized how serious and how grim this situation was.

Trevelyan absorbed the words for a moment. He turned his head to his right and raised an upturned palm. "Grand Enchanter Fiona," he beckoned. "What say you?"

Fiona stood as tall and rigid as Vivienne on the floor the hall, but Taesas knew that inside she was being devoured bit by bit. She knew the severity of the situation. As Grand Enchanter, she knew the unwritten laws of the Circle as well as any mage of the Orlesian Chantry. She knew that Vivienne was right and that there was no escape from this verdict.

Fiona stepped forward as she gave one, long, doleful look at Catlyn. The girl had been one of the few hand-selected by the Grand Enchanter to learn her new heresy. Oh the disappointment that must have rotted her to stand and look upon her failed protege.

Fiona's shoulders lifted and fell as she exhaled, then turned her back to the mage fallen from grace to address the Inquisitor.

"Your worship," Fiona paused, stopping, perhaps swallowing the bitter pill of her defeat once more. "I abhor the savage cruelty of Tranquility, as do all of the mages who followed me in our secession from the Circle."

 _But,_ Taesas thought, waiting for the tiny word that had to be spoken, that signaled Fiona's error and disgrace.

"But these crimes cannot go without the severest of punishments," Fiona said, more quietly now. She lowered her eyes and dropped her head slightly. "As such, Inquisitor, I humbly defer to whatever judgment you deem just."

With her eyes still downcast at her feet, Taesas watched as Fiona slunk back into her place at the side of the hall, her fingers clasped together at her waist, with no other words available to her to speak.

A cold silence had settled over the hall now as the courtiers all had their eyes forward, waiting for the Inquisitor to speak.

This was the pall he had created. This was the confrontation he had made the Inquisitor face. This was the battle he had forced with idealism and the victory that he had won.

Throughout the hall, the most audible sound was that of Catlyn's sobbing, now knowing that there was no escape from fate.

The Inquisitor folded his hands before him, tipping his head until his forehead rested upon his clasped palms. No doubt he was saying a prayer, seeking the Maker's forgiveness for the justice he had to serve. He lifted his head, leaned back in his throne and clasped the knobbed ends on the armrests of his chair with both hands.

"I have heard mages say that Tranquility is a worse fate than death itself," Trevelyan said in words as cold and heavy as ice. "And though I am I tasked to serve justice in this hall, I am not a cruel man.

"But there is no leniency for murder and treason," he said. "I sentence you, Catlyn Bresna, to death."

Her loud sob racked the room as she collapsed to the floor, her tears and wails broken only by maddened pleas for her life. The Inquisitor rose from his seat as the guards lifted the weeping pile of woman from the stones and began to drag her outside. The screech of metal as Commander Cullen drew the Inquisitor's ceremonial blade and placed it in the leader's upturned hand sheared the air.

Taesas cast his eyes down, watching as they removed her from the hall. She was so stricken with her wailing that she did not look up before passing under the edge of the balcony and out of sight. A pity, Taesas thought, having wanted to peer into her eyes one last time and see what resided there as she contemplated the last minute of her life.

Some of the courtiers followed the Inquisitor out of the hall. Many more stayed. Only once Trevelyan had stepped out of the hall did a quiet chatter return. Grand Enchanter Fiona, he noticed, had fled the hall as soon as the Inquisitor was out of sight.

He did not go to the exterior balcony to look upon the executioner's stone. Neither did Vivienne. She still stood motionless in the same place. Taesas remained, silently, next to hear.

He could hear the sobbing and wailing. There was a fearful shriek. Frenzied, last, desperate pleas for mercy, strained, struggled as she was no doubt held down to the block by the guards to steady her neck.

The pitch and volume heightened into one last terrified scream, then the yard outside fell silent.

"Do you think Trevelyan will come to his senses now?" Taesas asked, as he rested his hands back on the balcony railing, allowing himself to lean comfortably. A few of the courtiers were still glancing up at him. He made sure to take note of who those people were.

"Doubtful," Vivienne answered, much to his surprise. "After Adamant, he is beyond convincing, in no small part to your actions there."

The accusation bit deeply as he tasted the dissatisfaction that sprayed from her tongue. What had she expected him to do? What more could he have done without directly interfering in the destruction of the rift mages? He wouldn't sacrifice himself to clean up a mess made when Vivienne had been outplayed by Fiona after Ceraux.

"It is of no consequence, however," she continued. "His opinion is no longer the one that needs to be influenced."

Vivienne's eyes were focused down into the great hall, staring at one person alone who still stood near the dais. Taesas followed her glance. When he saw where it fell, he could immediately perceive why. It would be difficult, but not impossible.

"It's bold," he said.

"Yes," she agreed. "But as I see it, I am left with few better options that may result in success. Distasteful or not, it must be done."

That almost sounded desperate. If there was one thing Vivienne never was, it was desperate.

"What do you require of me?"

Vivienne now turned for the first time, pivoting on her heel to face him. Her mouth was stern and her eyes, gazing out from behind her mask, were hard.

"I require you to leave Skyhold for the time being and to stay as far away as possible from Fiona's pet," she commanded. "Do you understand?"

Taesas met her gaze as he tried to bite back his tongue. There were a hundred things swirling across his lips he wanted to say. She had spent all these time holding the Inquisitor's coattails and where had it gotten her? She had done no more to put a stop to the rift mages or crush the mage rebellion as he had. At the least, his actions had eliminated two of them and reminded the entire court of Skyhold of the dangers of magic.

"I thought you were _dead,"_ he said between his teeth. "I may have acted irrationally, but I thought you of all people might understand the lengths a person will go to to save someone they love."

Whatever retort she had readied, that had disarmed her. She might have flinched, if she were capable of flinching. It was low to strike her through the memory of her departed Duke, but he could find no better way to make his point to her. If she did not understand that impulse, then she did not value him at all.

"There is no horror or danger I would not put myself in for you," he said.

"And that is why I need you to go," Vivienne answered sharply. "I will send for you when the time is right. At that time, we will sit and have a serious, honest discussion about what comes next."

He wasn't precisely sure that wasn't a threat in itself, that was until Vivienne reached down and took his hand in hers, wrapping her fingers around his. Taesas could feel a sudden rush passing through his body and he nearly forgot to breathe as he looked down at her hand holding his.

"Vivienne, I-"

"You have served me for many years, darling," she said softly. "I haven't forgotten your loyalty. But for now, I need you away from Skyhold. I have heard there are Venatori crossing the border in the north. Find them. Deal with them, in the name of the Inquisition, while I take care of matters here."

He didn't like being ushered away like this. He was stronger, they were both stronger, when they were together. But if that is what she required, he would obey. He could not say Skyhold had treated him favorably, so to be away from here might be a blessing.

He needed time to clear his own head, as well. She was right. He had not been himself at Adamant. He could not blame the battle or the lyrium or even the crisis of watching Vivienne fall from the walls into nothingness. It was his error to act so rashly.

"I will do as you ask," Taesas said, lifting Vivienne's hand and planting a small kiss upon her fingers.

She withdrew her palm and turned to return to her quarters. He watched her go. Tall. Powerful. Beautiful.

Taesas headed to the walls and the soldier's dormitories. He would leave today, this afternoon, if possible, before he ran afoul of anyone who had witnessed the execution. Better to leave them without a chance to see him and spread rumor.

He hadn't seen any of the rift mages in the hall during the judgment. He hadn't seen any of them in the tavern or around the yard the last few days. And he hadn't felt any of their magic in Skyhold recently. If they were here, they had been laying low.

If not, then either Fiona had hidden them away again or, worse, the Inquisitor continued to sanction them. Perhaps after facing Catlyn and seeing her abomination, he would come to his senses. Even if Vivienne didn't plan to derive victory through him any longer, it couldn't hurt to have the Inquisitor pull back on the chains.

Taesas gave two knocks at the door, which was already cracked open, as he pushed the it open to the Knight-Lieutenant's quarters.

"Matteo, I have a new assignment and I'll need you and your Templars to…"

Taesas trailed off as he looked at the items portioned out upon the bed as Matteo went around picking them up one by one and stuffing them into a pack. He hadn't stopped as Taesas began speaking, and didn't pause now that Taesas had stopped.

"What's going on?" Taesas asked.

"I'm leaving," Matteo said.

"Have you received an assignment? I can arrange to speak with Commander Cullen and see if he can-"

"No," Matteo interrupted. "I'm leaving the Inquisition. I'm returning to Val Royeaux. I should be with my wife and my daughter should be with her mother."

Taesas watched as he picked up the last of his clothes and dropped them into the pack, then cinched the cord at the top. The doors of the wardrobe were open and empty. The Knight-Lieutenant lifted the sack and placed it on the floor as he sat down next to the pieces of his Templar regalia, reaching down to slip his feet into his armored boots first.

"I'm heading to the north. There have been reports of Venatori in the area. Likely demons with them," Taesas said. "You anti-magic will be invaluable."

"Find someone else," Matteo said as he lifted his greaves and began to strap them around his legs.

"You can't just leave," Taesas said. "What about your duty?"

Matteo snorted as he shook his head while continuing to put on his armor. "There are still faithful Templars protecting the Grand Cathedral in the capital. I can do my duty there." He shook his head again. "I've had enough of so-called duty to this Inquisition."

Taesas hadn't risen to the top of the Game by being oblivious. He could see through all of Matteo's words and his demeanor to his true intent.

"This is because of Adamant."

Matteo jerked hard on his thigh plates to make sure his greaves were secure. He patted his legs as he sat up and turned his head. "You're very perceptive," he said sarcastically.

"You know as well as I what was expected of us," Taesas said. "You know the burdens of leadership as well as I."

Matteo stood up, lifting his breastplate as he slid it over his shoulders and straightened it across his chest. The flaming sword of Andraste at the breastplate was as clean as polished as it could be for the age and wear of his armor.

"You were going to let my Jolene die up there," Matteo said coldly, keeping his eyes focused on Taesas while his hands worked the belts and clasps of his armor around his sides through pure muscle memory. "It was the rebel girl, the one you've spent all this time fighting and trying to undermine, it was her, not you, who acted when action was needed."

He gave a hard tug on the last belt around his breastplate. "She saved my little girl."

"The daughter you conceived after a fling with some dancer? The daughter that you held in your arms and then decided to take your vows anyway? The daughter you spent your life hiding from in Montsimmard because you were ashamed of what you had done?" Taesas spat out quickly, reciting the truths that Jolene had told him about her father during their evening encounter the last time he had been at Skyhold. He was glad to have them to wield at this moment. The effort of collecting secrets were never wasted effort.

"Do you even know why she became a Templar? Why she was out there putting her life on the line at Adamant at all?" he said. "She joined the Order because she wanted to see what was so damn glorious about it to keep her father from her life for all those years!"

Matteo stood silently, shaking his head slightly from side to side. Did he hear those words and think them false? Or did he know that they were true and he was just too weak to accept them?

"So don't try to tell me now that your duty means nothing and that your daughter means everything to you, because it's not true. It wasn't then and it isn't now," Taesas said.

The Knight-Lieutenant lifted his sword belt from the bed, silently strapped it around his waist. He lifted his shield and slung it across his back. He slipped his hands into his mailed gauntlets. Tucked his winged helmet underneath his left arm. Reached down and picked up his sack into his right hand and tossed it over his right shoulder.

Only then did he look back at Taesas.

"You just know everything, don't you?" His voice was laced with quiet disgust.

"You can't go, Matteo," Taesas said now, honestly. "I need you here. I've always needed you, always trusted and valued you, since the day we met."

Matteo shook his head again. He was lost.

"I was content to stand by your side while you played your Game in the Circle, pretending that people weren't getting hurt in the process," he said. "So I don't know why I was surprised when you weren't going to do anything to stop me from getting hurt."

He began walking to the door, stopping in front of Taesas and giving him one last look.

"I don't want to play any more," Matteo said.

"I quit."


	41. Chapter 41

**Forty-one**

It took two men to lift the oversized, golden chair from the wagon, carry it around to the front of the column and plop it down onto the road.

The dwarf stepped backward, dropping himself into the seat. Although the back stretched up and up, the seat was low and close enough to the ground that his short legs could bend for his feet to touch the ground comfortably. The back was ornately carved with runes, a golden dragon curled around the back, clutching its claws to the top right corner of the seat, head up and jaws wide, large wings spread out to the side. There were jewels encrusted into it. The cushion, it looked, was a clean, fluffy purple velvet.

Vell crossed her arms over her chest as she cocked her head to the side.

"You carry a throne around with you?" she asked.

The dwarf laughed loudly at that, his face scrunching into several dark creases that suggested he laughed loudly and raucously often. As his mouth flung wide, she could catch the glint of gold inside of it where some of his teeth should have been. Even from several feet away, he smelled like onions and ale. The braids of his beard bounced. The shirt of silverite rings tucked under his sturdy leather chestplate jingled slightly as he jiggled.

After he had his good laugh, he stopped, and whistled. He wiped his hands under each eye, his stubby fingers brushing over the two black bars tattooed between his lower lids and his cheekbones. He then smiled, his eyes opening too wide in a somewhat unsettling way as he lifted his hands up from the arms of the chair.

"Of course," he said. "I'm a king. A king needs a throne."

Vell slumped her head at the claim. "You're a king?" she said without hiding her skepticism.

"Aye, skinny thing," he said again, leaning forward in the seat. "I'm a king."

Then he leaned back, stretching his neck up as he shouted over his shoulder. "Lover! My crown!"

A moment later, a cocoa-skinned elf appeared around the left side of the chair with an all-gold coronet of woven braids dangling from her index finger. She flipped it up into her palm, leaning over slightly as she placed it lightly atop the dwarf's head.

The elf stayed, dangling over the side of the chair, brushing her fingers across the dwarf's shoulder and smiling provocatively at Vell and her companions. The black plume of hair down the center of her head swept back over her skull, fenced in by two tights braids on either side. From her right ear, a golden chain dangled with a feather on the end.

She stopped her gaze for a moment, tongue running slowly over her upper lip, and gave a wink. She leaned down, nearly resting her cheek on the dwarf's shoulder.

"I like the red one, my handsome king," she said as she let one leg lift up from the ground and bend back at the knee. The muscles in her ass tightened and she placed a single finger in between her teeth with a playful bite.

Vell turned her head to the left and looked at Malcolm, who was grinning like an idiot as he straightened his shoulders and stood up a little taller. He cleared his throat and pushed out his chest.

The dwarf chuckled as he lifted his chin to nuzzle his cheek against the side of her head, all the while she was still flirting with the Fereldan mage. The dwarf lifted his shoulder and the elf rose, standing against the tall back of the chair next to him.

The dwarf, now turning back to Vell, pointed a stubby finger up toward his head and the crown that now sat on it.

"Roggi Redbeard," he said. "As I said, _King_ Roggi Redbeard."

"Your beard is blonde," Vell made sure to point out, still playing unimpressed.

Roggi laughed again, then leaned forward in the seat again, pressing his elbow into his knee as he cupped his hand around his mouth. He glanced from side to side, as if he were making sure no one was around even though there was clearly no one around. Then he whispered, as if he were telling some kind of secret.

"That's because I haven't killed anyone yet today," he said. His eyes seemed to light up at the prospect.

Where did Fiona even meet these people?

Vell wondered that as the dwarf bounced backward into his throne again, laughing as loudly and vigorously as he had before, his hands clasped over his stomach to keep himself from bursting.

First Ghi, the obnoxiously elfy elf. Now, Roggi, the… slightly unhinged dwarf?

Was it wrong to assume that a stuffy old _Orlesian_ mage like Fiona would know, well, other stuffy old mages or other _Orlesians_? Vell had maybe expected some holier-than-thou chevalier or a mage with a stick so far up his ass he walked with a limp. Someone like Taesas, maybe.

Instead she got a dwarf with a crown and a throne and his companion elf who looked part like a barbarian who came marauding down from the hills and part like that one woman in the brothel who would screw you so hard she'd break one of your bones during some exceptionally violent humping.

 _You asked for this_ , that annoying part of her head reminded her.

She had wanted a new assignment. Fiona conveniently had something ready to go that instant. It was almost as if the Grand Enchanter had set it up ahead of time, like she knew this kind of thing was going to happen. That had made Vell somewhat suspicious.

Now that she looked at Roggi and his woman, it raised the question: Who did Fiona think _she_ was to connect her with him?

"I'm Vell," she said, introducing herself despite the continuing string of doubts and questions that swirled around her head. She pointed to the others. "Merin's the other elf. Jac is the Orlesian. And Malcolm's the Fereldan. The 'red' one, I guess."

"A strapping Fereldan hound," the elf said as she eyed Malcolm up again. "Please let me have him, lover."

"It'd be my pleasure," Malcolm said, trying to sound suave but instead coming off sounding awkward like some doofus apprentice trying to score in the Circle. Because he was, more or less.

"You'd better be careful what you wish for, boy," Roggi warned. "She's more than you can handle."

Roggi turned back to Vell.

"Anyhow, Fiona's nearly making me rich enough to buy my way back into Orzammar, but that don't mean we're babysitters. You want to travel with my company, you've gotta prove you're worth your food and ale. Especially the ale. Ale ain't cheap. And I don't like sharing," Roggi said.

"We're worth it," Vell said. The Inquisitor seemed to think so. Fiona too. Donal probably wouldn't agree.

"We'll see," Roggi said. He clapped his thick hands together. "Here's the deal. We take all Fiona's money. You work for me. You follow my rules and my orders. We go where I say we go and when I say we go there. You don't kill anyone I don't say you can kill, you don't drink any ale I don't tell you to drink and you don't cock my woman unless I say so," he said directing the last bit squarely at Malcolm who was not paying attention and instead exchanging nonverbal glances back and forth with the elf.

"All the spoils, all the profit belongs to me," Roggi continued. "You get food and drink and a bedroll to sleep on if you're worth it. In exchange for all that, you and your Inquisition get the credit."

He extended his hand out toward Vell. "And if you don't get killed and do a good job, you might just have a lot of sodding fun with me," he said with a devilish smirk. Of everything he'd said so far, that was the one thing she out of all it she knew for sure was true because of the way he seemed to light up with the prospect. "Do we have a deal, Rainbows?"

He withdrew his hand for a second, rolled his fingers back into his hand except for his index finger, which he pointed at her, then the others one at a time. "And you all get stupid nicknames. Rainbows. Red. Ehhh, Cheese. And…" he stopped at Merin as he tried to think of something as he shook his hand. "I'll get back to you."

Roggi extended his hands once more in offering. "So, deal?"

"I don't particularly like Cheese," Jac complained, too late as Vell clasped the dwarf's hand.

"Deal, I guess," she said.

"And you have to call me 'Your Highness,'" Roggi blurted.

Vell shook her head as she let go of his hand. "Too late. We already shook."

"Piss," Roggi said as he shook his head and tisk-tisked himself. Then he stopped and glanced up at Merin again with a raised eyebrow. "You like cocks, boy?"

"What? No!" Merin said as he waved his hands. He glanced at Vell, looking for help.

"Really?" Roggi said while he scratched his chin underneath his beard. "I'm gonna call you Flute. That seems like it's right. Like," the dwarf stopped as he held up his hands like he were holding a flute, then fluttered his fingers as if he were playing. Then he moved his hands as if he were shoving something into his mouth until it jammed into his cheek.

"Ummm," Merin stammered.

"Don't worry about it, Flute," Roggi said. "Nothing wrong with it. We've all gobbed a few cocks in our day. Nothing to be ashamed of."

"Yeah, I don't like this," Merin said to her.

Vell shrugged.

"I don't know," she said, shoving Merin in the shoulder to lighten up. "I kind of like him."

* * *

The red crystals glowed in the dark, pulsing in and out lightly.

Vell had to admit, it made it much easier to see the Red Templars camped on the hill, surrounded by a couple plumes of crystal as tall as a man. There were a dozen or more, at least, from what she could see. In the dark, it was hard to tell if there was a cave or crevice in the hillside. Might be more inside there too.

"Real simple," Roggi said as he glanced across sea of grass between them and the hill that looked like a slowly swaying black ocean in the dim. "My boys come down the road pulling the wagons looking like merchants from town. Templars come out to kill them. Then we gank them right up their glowing assholes."

"Sounds easy enough," Vell said, as she could see the first light of the torches coming up the road in the distance.

The King's Men, as Roggi called his band, were thirty strong. Men. Elves. Dwarves. Good fighters, he said. Better drinkers, he boasted. They had a couple strong men, but by Vell's look, most of them were kind of thin and wiry and carried a lot of short blades. She was familiar with the type. She had seen plenty of those types in the back-alleys of Val Royeaux as a kid. You stayed away from those types. The elf, Talon, was his second.

His troop did do some legitimate trading, Roggi swore. It only made sense. You had to travel from place to place on contracts for blood, so why not haul around some goods and hawk them when needed? If you were a dwarf and went into the market and called it all "Fine dwarven crafts, direct from Orzammar!" people ate up whatever you sold them, he said.

That brought in some money, but it was clear that Roggi enjoyed earning his coin much more with his axe, well axes, than with his wagons. He had a literal arsenal of axes that he had showed off with some pride as he went through them. Halberds, greataxes, handaxes, shortaxes, throwing axes. Each one of them, she had noticed, had a woman's name on it, including a wicked bearded axe with gold accents that he called "Talon."

She wasn't going to ask, but he gleefully informed her that every woman that crossed his bed got an axe named after her. He then proceeded to describe to her a slender throwing axe he thought might be perfect if Vell were interested in making his armory. She declined, although she really had never been around a dwarf before and the idea was interesting at least on that premise.

And, in what didn't surprise Vell at all due to Roggi's extravagant and boastful personality, he had a bronto.

Rumbles wore enough thick armor to look like a some kind of gruesome, battle-worn battering ram, with enough clips and loops around the saddle on his back to hold a variety of Roggi's axes. Supposedly, Rumbles was the only one who could outdrink Roggi, so he said.

Talon wasn't nearly half as ostentatious as Roggi. She carried an imposing longbow slung over her back and a quiver of black-fletched arrows and had two short swords that sat in crossed sheathes in the small of her back.

She wore a steel bracer at at her left wrist, otherwise her leather armor was a plain, dull brown. There was a pauldron on the left side but her right arm was bare. The corset laced in the center and had some stiffness around the abdomen and flanks, but it was more or less open above the bust where she made no effort to hide her bulging breasts. Malcolm couldn't stop staring at her like a hungry dog.

Her body was tight, with clearly defined muscle down both arms, in her abdomen and in her legs. There wasn't a doubt in Vell's mind that she could break Malcolm in half if she wanted to, and he had a Fereldan burliness that made him far thicker than either Merin or Jac. When she stopped flirting, she was quiet and serious, and when she gave orders to the rest of the King's Men, they moved.

Vell wouldn't want to tangle with her, that was for sure.

"Remember, they're paying an extra hundred gold for every Templar helmet we bring back," Talon said as she came up behind Roggi and streaked her hands through his messy blonde hair on both sides of his head and rested her chest on the top of his head. "So try not to destroy all of them."

"Mmmm, you know once I get going I can't help how hard I hit things," he said in what Vell immediately understand wasn't just relating to bashing in helmets.

Roggi reached back around himself, trying to grab Talon even as she playfully bent at the waist moving her hips away from him as his fingers stretched for her.

"You ready, Rainbows?" Roggi asked as he gave up and instead began fingering the shortaxe dangling from his belt. "All your boys gotta do is follow me and Rumbles and not die. Simple."

Vell cracked her knuckles as she looked at the wagon drawing closer and the Red Templars on the hill beginning to stir as they noticed the King's Men. "I really do hate these Templar fucks," she said in anticipation.

That made Roggi burst out into laughter again as he nodded his head up and down with approval. "I think we're going to get along just great Rainbows."

He stepped back, vaulted himself up onto Rumbles and tapped each of the half-dozen axes he had loaded up on the back of the bronto to make sure they were secure. He lifted the horned half-helm from where it was resting on one of Rumbles' crest horns and popped it on top of his head. He lifted the long-shafted heavy riding axe and rested it across his lap as he watched the Red Templars begin to move down the hill.

"Now you're going to find out why they call me Redbeard."

* * *

As they rolled into the center of the crossroads town, Vell noticed how many of the buildings were burnt or otherwise damaged.

The townspeople stirred slowly, cautiously peering out from doorways, windows and under eaves of their meager homes. Where Ceraux had been rich and fancy before it was destroyed, wherever this was was very poor.

The town didn't have any walls or any towers. There were no guards, no people walking around in fancy clothes wearing fancy dresses. There was no expensive wine being sold in the market and no vendors hawking meats and exotic fruit.

Instead she saw grim people with ragged clothes, small children that looked filthy and gaunt. One of the men was leaning heavily on a crutch, with a bloody wrap around his head and a splint roped to his left leg. There were a lot of freshly dug graves outside their small chapel, the only stone building in the place.

They stopped as one of the old men of the town came to meet them. Roggi hopped down from his bronto to meet the man, who must have been their mayor.

"Those Red Templars won't be bothering you any more," Roggi announced.

He snapped his fingers and Talon came up alongside him, turning over the large sack and spilling out a dozen and a half Templar helmets. Some were burned. Some were dented in. Some had nearly been sheared in two. Most of them were bloodstained. A handful of the Red Templars didn't have helmets, or they had been hit so hard with an axe they broke into too many pieces to recover.

"The road out is safe now," Roggi said, giving one of the helmets closest to his foot a kick. It bounced, rolling until it stopped near one of the houses in front of a mother with two small boys standing in the doorway.

The old man looked at the helmets, then turned his head back toward a young man waiting in front of the largest building in town, of which the southern half was little more than burnt timbers now. "Go get the payment."

"Father, no!" the young man protested. "It's all we have."

"Do as I say," the old man ordered. "Better poor than dead."

The young man wanted to protest more, but huffed and turned back into the building.

The town was quiet. There were market stalls set up around the town square, but all of them were empty. A few were broken. The wheel ruts in the ground suggested to Vell that, maybe, at one time, this place hadn't been as abandoned and pathetic as it looked now.

She looked up at Roggi's main wagon, at the geometric dwarven banner flying from one side of the carriage and, on the other side, the black and white banner of the Inquisition. The sword and eye emblem seemed to stare back at her.

" _Whatever you do, remember, you represent the Inquisition, but you also represent the mages and yourself too,_ " Fiona had told her before sending her off from Skyhold. " _Make sure the people know that we are not who they've always made us out to be."_

"Keep your money," Vell said, raising her voice enough so the mayor could hear her. That caused the old man to look her way, as well as Roggi, who turned around slowly with wide, unhappy eyes.

"We represent the Inquisition and those Templars are our enemies. It's our duty to beat them out of Orlais," she said. "We serve the people. It wouldn't be right for us to take your gold."

Roggi didn't appear to like any of that, but he held his tongue except for his quiet stare.

"Besides, we had a good time kicking their asses, didn't we?" The King's Men gave various hoots and shouts of approval at the question.

Vell couldn't say she didn't enjoy herself. The neck on that one Templar bent back so far when she hit it she could have sworn his head was going to pop off his shoulders. And she couldn't forget the sound of Roggi's loud laughter throughout the battle and how, by the end of it, he was so blood spattered that yes, his beard was colored with a grim, red dye.

"Rebuild what you lost here," Vell said looking around at the others. "And when people pass through, just tell them how the Inquisition helped you."

The young man emerged back out of the house, heaving a large chest in his arms as he came down the steps. He stopped as the old man motioned for him to halt, while walking past Roggi and toward Vell. The old man, he had grey-blue eyes that looked so weary, reached out and took her hand in between both of his palms.

"Thank you," he said, ducking his head and shaking her hand. "Thank you for this. We won't forget this kindness. We are in your debt."

The old man stepped back, still looking exasperated, but glad. "When people come, who should we tell them saved our town?"

Vell pointed toward the dwarf. "Actually, it's not my company, they're the-"

"No," Roggi interrupted. "You don't need to hide behind me any more."

Vell looked over at the dwarf, confused. He gave her a quiet nod in return.

"We're just mercenaries hired to help. They're the real deal. Mages from the Inquisition. They saved our asses the same way they saved yours and a dozen other towns between here and the mountains," Roggi lied. "They're sodding saviors of Orlais."

Vell glanced over at Merin, who exchanged a skeptical look with her. Jac had his hands clasped behind his back looking dignified, while Malcolm was doing that thing where his chest was all puffed out again.

"So when you tell people who helped your town, you tell them it was four Inquisition mages and their band of hired swords," Roggi said. "You tell them that their leader is an elf woman with rainbow-colored hair who casts spells so fierce that they can make a dwarf shit his armor in surprise."

That got some snickers around the town, as Roggi turned around, looking from house to house.

"And when they ask you what that elf's name is, you tell them you're never going to forget it. You tell them it's short and simple and easy to remember," Roggi said.

Maybe he was still drunk, or maybe the dwarf was part berserker and part showman. But he had clearly captured the attention of all the townsfolk who were clearly hooked on his words, Vell saw. Honestly, even Vell was hanging on them.

"You tell them her name is Vell," Roggi said, pointing toward her. He snuck her a wink as every head turned toward her and not toward him. "And we take our name after her."

"We're the Vellions."


	42. Chapter 42

**Forty-two**

Lydes was a sight.

The city was war-ravaged, although the locals had done every superficial thing to try to hide the fact that it had been under siege by the Empress's forces ever since its late duke stabbed her in the back to side with Gaspard.

It had ended badly for Remache, just as the power play had ended badly for the Grand Duke.

Remache's cousin Caralina now was the ruler, in name, although Taesas was as aware as anyone that she had ascended to the title only by the grace of the Inquisition's meddling. She wasn't in the city, as far as he was aware. Her husband ruled over much safer, albeit less prestigious duchy. No doubt he had been getting many more inquiries about the status of his children and grandchildren since.

If Vivienne wanted him away from Skyhold, he could oblige her for a time. He would head north, as she requested, and spend a few weeks swatting aside Venatori prowling through the Fields of Ghislain. He could use the trip as an excuse to stop in Val Royeaux and catch some sort of event in the capital. If he was feeling up to it, perhaps he might see if he could find his way into some gathering where the Empress might also be there, to personally congratulate her on her continued rule.

More than that, he would want to see if Marquise Briala was there. Although there was plenty to do to rebuild the south - and plenty of lesser, human nobles no doubt rankled with her sudden rise to power - he suspected he would find her close to the Empress's side, despite their abridged separation.

Although Gaspard had fallen short of the crown, his intuition to make careful implications about the Empress and her elven confidant were particularly inspired. Best of all, he had been right, even if the Empress continued to pretend as if there were nothing untoward about the arrangement.

And so the Game continued.

If nothing else, Lydes was abuzz with activity now that the civil war had been settled. The conflict was gone, but the trappings of war were still thickly draped around the city as now the reunited Orlesian army prepared to march at the Inquisition's command. The large camps outside the city walls were as neat and orderly as could be expected for a garrison of a few thousand soldiers, while inside the walls the city was criss-crossed with chevaliers and soldiers.

The Game continued here, albeit it in slow motion. With all of the guests, the reconstruction at hand and the actual work to be done, it had become one of those rare instances where intrigue needed to be shelved temporarily for the greater good. Orlais could be pragmatic when absolutely necessary.

And, with all of the activity, there was little time for anyone to take notice of him. More the better, for the errand at hand.

Taesas tapped his knuckles against the verdantly-painted door, taking note of the large windows in the front of the house and the carefully pruned flower bushes on either side of the front steps. The house was only two levels and it was much newer than the structure in Ceraux, but no less meticulously kept.

This time, when he came calling at Alycine's door, he was at least alone. With Matteo gone, he had foregone seeking a different Templar escort, nor had he sought any of the Loyalists or the Inquisition rabble to accompany him. He could move quicker on his own and, thankfully, with more discretion.

He could see the curtains in the window move as he stepped back from the door, hearing sounds on the other side. He pushed the thin braids of hair behind his ears and crossed his arms over his chest as the door cracked open slightly.

In that narrow opening, Alycine stuck her head out, keeping her fingers wrapped around the edge of the door.

"You shouldn't be here," she said, in a less cordial greeting than he had expected to receive.

Taesas leaned back, looking at the windows again, then turned his head both ways down the block, not seeing anyone else of note on the street. "And why is that? Is your husband here?"

"Here, no. In the city, yes," she said.

Taesas smirked. "Then it will be just like that late-autumn ball in Val Royeaux, when he was speaking to Duke Bastien and we were able to sneak away to the bedrooms on the third floor. You were wearing gold that night, with rubies. I'll never forget the way you sounded, trying to muffle your pleasure so we wouldn't be discovered."

If she remembered, she didn't seem to get as excited by the memory as he was. "It's not a good time. You should go," she said as the door began to inch closed.

Taesas placed the toe of his boot in between the door and the frame, to ensure that it did not shut. She clearly wanted to be rid of him, quickly, but why?

She didn't look nearly as made up today as when last he saw her, not that it bothered him. Alycine could have rolled in the dirt in the street, for all he cared, and it would not lessen his esteem or desire for her. Her face looked a bit more rounded than he remembered. Bloated, perhaps? Or maybe she had put on a little weight? The fare in Lydes was arguably richer than in Ceraux, where fresh fish was more readily available than inland. Even still, that didn't matter.

Then he caught sight of her hand, which she quickly retracted further inside the house when she noticed that he had noticed.

"You're wearing your wedding ring."

It was oversized and heavy. Gaudy, too. Her husband had no taste. She would wear it to formal events when they attended together, but outside of public appearances she always kept it in a box in her bedroom. They had laughed about it, once. He had asked her to put it on, once. She did, for him, and then remounted him on the bed. She had playfully touched the jewel to his lips and forced him to suck it as she slowly grinded up and down with him inside of her.

She sighed, and shook her head in annoyed frustration. "I am."

"What is going on, Alycine?" Taesas pushed the door and she stepped back, allowing it to open.

As his eyes adjusted to the comparative dim inside the home, he watched her cross her arms over her chest, forearms resting just under her breasts and just above the rounded curve of her pregnant stomach.

"Maker," he said quietly as he started at the bump. Judging by the size, she had to be at least five months into it. Just about the time going back to Ceraux. And then he tilted his head, considering for a moment. The timing would be close.

"Wait…" he said as he lowered his voice, not sure of who else might be in the house. "Is it mine?"

Alycine rolled her eyes as she tilted her head back, pleading to the sky for some type of mercy she wasn't going to get. "Don't be ridiculous, Tae."

"Your husband?" he asked himself, more than anyone. "For fuck's sake, Alycine. I thought you were done with that?"

She, of everyone, never pretended that her sneaking around was just some innocent dalliance. She never pretended that lying with him was some game, some achievement that she could tell her most trusted friends about, while he extracted whatever money, influence, promises or secrets he would get in return.

When she had come to him, when she had come to him that first time years ago, she came as a woman who was desperately seeking some sort of escape from a situation she was bound to by Orlesian law and custom. She didn't want simple pleasure, she didn't want a story, she didn't want a trophy. She wanted someone who would want her, would need her, would love her, if only for one night.

Taesas had been more than devoted to filling that role for her.

But this? This, to not only lay with that man again, to give him another child after she had firmly and definitively told him that he had enough? It felt like betrayal, even if he had no particular stake in any of it.

"I thought I was, too," she said. She clearly didn't sound proud of it, yet she didn't speak as if this were a tragedy thrust upon her. "My situation changed. In no small part to you and your mages destroying my city, I'll remind you."

"I can't believe it," he muttered.

"My lady, I've made up the bed for you and-" a servant called as she came down the stairs, then stopped as she reached the bottom and saw Taesas. "Oh, my lady, I didn't realize you had a guest."

"He's leaving soon," Alycine announced. "I'll be up in a minute. Thank you."

The servant nodded and retreated back up the stairs. Now, at least one person knew he was in the house. If the rest of Alycine's brain was still safe from the rot that had eaten her disdain for her husband, he hoped she would make it known that he _wasn't_ here today.

"What do you want? Why are you here?" she asked, increasing her effort to push him back out the door.

"I had come to see you. I've been missing you," he said.

"I had been missing you my entire life," she responded. "And yet, here I am. Still."

What was she playing at now? Did she really expect him to take seriously all her flippant ideas to break away, to go rogue and flee to Antiva or somewhere halfway across the world? That had all just been foolishness, wishful thinking, pining for a world that could never be. It would be easy for her to run, to break her marriage vows.

But for him, he could never not be a mage. The second he left, he would be branded apostate. That would never change.

What more could he have done for her that he didn't already offer?

"You know I would have had him killed," he said in an angered whisper that came out more like a threatening growl. "A hundred times over. I would have even done it myself, for you. Is that what you wanted? Is that what you want? I'll find the man and end him now if that's what you need from me."

"You're embarrassing yourself," she said.

"What do you want of me?!" he was nearly frothing, spitting now.

She swallowed, calmly and nodded her head toward the door. "I want you to go. And not to come back."

"Don't send me away Alycine," he said. "I know this, this isn't what you want."

She sighed and shrugged. "Maybe," she admitted. "But things have changed. I can't go back now."

"What did he do to you? Tell me. I can fix it," he offered even as she placed her hand lightly on his chest and began to push him back toward the open door. "I'll move the Empire itself for you."

When he was back on the front stoop, Alycine grabbed the edge of the door again and shook her head.

"That's not necessary," she said, simply. For the first time, she looked sad, or regretful, or sorry, if only a little. "I'll write you. I owe you that, at least."

"Alycine…"

"Goodbye, for now, Tae," she said as she shut the door.

He stared at the green paint, the grain of the wood, for a few seconds, not sure what to do. He glanced to his left, then right, to make sure again that no one was watching. He saw the curtains in the front windows move, closing, by the chubby servant woman inside.

He stepped backward, still looking at the door and wondering what had just happened. There was more to that story than she was telling him. Something had happened, something unexpected. Someone in Lydes would know. If not in Lydes, then someone, somewhere in this damnable Empire would know. There were no secrets in Orlais. Someone always knew. He would know.

Taesas had never killed a chevalier. Outright, at least. Alycine's husband was a rigid, dull man. He stood and spoke and acted as if he were a human manifestation of a chevalier textbook. He wasn't even a particularly _good_ chevalier, from what Taesas had heard. It was no small feat to survive the training and reach the graduation ceremony from the academy, but still, there were men who stood as icons of the Empire while there were others who were merely outlasted the program. He was definitely of the latter.

And Alycine, now pregnant with a sixth child, years after her last. The girl was in her teens now. More than a decade of resisting her husband and suddenly she gives in to him? That wasn't right, no matter how nonchalant she tried to act about it.

Taesas made sure to slow his gait when he noticed he was nearly stomping down the lane, fuming, as he headed toward the downtown and the inns. The Game had slowed in Lydes, but it was not paused. It would not suit that some no one might see him in anger having left the east quarter of the city. Better that no one had reason to guess where he had been and why and what had lit a fuse within him.

He came up the steps into the elevated central plaza where the central market district was surrounded on all sides by green space and hemmed in by a rounded, short, decorative wall. The walls were set with alcoves and marble busts paying homage to the long line of ruling dukes and duchesses of Lydes. The small parks were also filled with numerous flowering trees, walking paths, fountains, sculpture installments and, of course, numerous lovers' alcoves where people could step aside to pretend to be unseen while everyone was looking.

If nowhere else, the Game would be alive here, as he surveyed the grounds and took note of the people out and about today.

There was a bard, sitting under one of the trees and quietly playing a guitar, making no effort at all to disguise that she was a bard. Her eyes were focused down at her left hand as she played, watching her own fingers as she changed between chords. He could hear the music, which didn't have any of the mistakes of an amateur as might be suggested by her demeanor. She was here to intimidate someone and doing so by clearly not paying them any attention at all. He scanned to see if there was anyone who looked out of sorts and bothered, but didn't notice anyone.

There was also a young Inquisition soldier standing up against the outer wall, hands clasped behind his back and longsword sheathed at his hip. He wasn't wearing a mask, since none of the Inquisition soldiers did, but he should have been. Taesas watched his eyes and how they moved inconspicuously from person to person. He caught Taesas's eyes, made contact for a second, then gave the slightest nod of acknowledgement before turning his gaze away. The Spymaster had obviously sent him here, not the Commander.

And in the second lover's alcove, there was a young girl sitting with a young man, her body turned slightly on an angle toward him.

Taesas began to cross the grass, angling slightly toward the bard to get a closer look at her as he passed. Even as he approached, she didn't look up from her instrument, uninterested in him. He looked down, noticing the small silverite hilt of a dagger tucked behind her. That made more sense, he thought as he passed. She was waiting for someone, someone who was going to wish he or she hadn't decided to greet her in the park today.

As Taesas's approached the lover's alcove, the young woman bent forward for a kiss. The young man grew flush in the face and backed away, sliding a few inches away from her on the bench. When she recoiled, he quickly spittled out some excuse that Taesas couldn't hear, then got up and quickly paced away, meeting another young man who had been waiting nearby under a tree. Together, they exchanged a short word and turned and headed away down the path.

The girl dropped her hands into her lap, clutching a small handbag as she looked down at the ground, slightly crestfallen.

"You should lift your head and smile as if you're happy," Taesas said as he got close enough for her to hear. Marjerie D'Targele did lift her head, but she didn't smile when she recognized him.

"Did you see that?" she asked, with an annoyed snarl very unbecoming of her youth.

"Me and several other people, I'm afraid," he said as he stepped into the shade and sat down on the bench next to her without an invitation. He leaned back into the alcove, letting his shoulders touch the wall, as he lifted his right leg and crossed it on top of his left casually. "Lean back, like I am, relaxed, like you know and trust me."

"Why?" Marjerie asked as she turned her head.

"Because that man in the purple with the silver mask is watching you and he intends to either abduct you or steal your purse when you get up to leave," Taesas said, looking at the man. Younger, not quite middle aged. His clothes were fine, but he wasn't wearing any noble's crest. "Or worse."

Marjerie glanced out and spotted the man, who turned his head as if he wasn't looking in her direction. She slowly moved back on the bench and leaned as well, scooting a little closer to Taesas. "How do you know that?"

Taesas continued to stare at the man until he turned his head back to take another peek at Alycine's daughter. When he did, Taesas let a small tendril of fire spring off of his right palm, just enough to light up the dim alcove. The man in purple turned and began to walk away.

"Practice, my lady," he said as he uncrossed his legs and sat up. "And don't worry about the Ardennes boy. He didn't kiss you because he's probably off somewhere else kissing his friend right now. I apologize for suggesting to your mother that she try to match you with him. I had heard that he had an intellect, but I wasn't aware that he was also a homosexual."

"How do you know _that?"_ she asked him now.

"Again, practice. His friend was fidgety and nervous when you leaned in, looking nearly ready to shout. And, of course, that there is no other explanation as to why he wouldn't accept a kiss from a young lady who looks as lovely as you do today, Marjerie," Taesas said. He was now doubly glad that he hadn't acted on the fool Catlyn's offer and made the effort to strengthen Lord Ardennes' position. He might have felt bad if he had guided the man into marrying his son to Marjerie.

She didn't take the flattery, instead crossing her arms with a quiet hmpf. She was as headstrong as Alycine complained. Difficult, but not impossible to work with. Many of the women who were best at playing Orlais's Game were those who chose not so much as to break the rules, but to scoff at them and bend them in new and interesting ways to meet their ends.

"I tried to tell my mother that Mathieu was a little pansy," she said, so crudely that Taesas wanted to cringe.

"Well then, my lady, what should we do to him?" Taesas asked as he caught sight of the man in purple again who had returned, albeit farther out. He was looking in this direction again. Who was that? And what did he want? He hoped the man was stupid enough to try to accost the girl. Then Taesas would be able to find out firsthand, once he broke one or both of the fool's legs.

"What do you mean?"

"Mathieu Ardennes has publicly insulted your honor, whether he knows it or not," Taesas explained. "You could always let that kind of slight go unpunished, but I'd advise against it. I happen to know Comte Chanderelle. He's a bold man. He'd respect a young woman who shows a little initiative, that is, if you're still interested in his son Justine."

She smiled at that prospect, doing nothing to keep it to herself as she should have. He already knew that she was still interested. The Comte knew too. He already knew that Marjerie and Justine had done more than just a little kissing during the last dinner he hosted at his estate. Unfortunately, Taesas didn't have any resources the Comte was seeking to strengthen his claim on the southern lands he was seeking, but Taesas had promised to keep his ears open for anything that might help.

"What would you do?" she asked.

"Only whatever _you_ would ask of me." He made sure she understand that. "But if it were I in your position, I would suggest removing his friend."

"Kill him?" she asked, sounding concerned.

"No, of course not. That would be far too severe," he said, at least pleased that she had some natural sense of justice. Bloodthirst and ruthlessness never got anyone far, without valid reason, at least. "Merely a few anonymous words sent discreetly to Lord Ardennes about the boy's persuasion would be enough. The Lord is nothing if not traditional and paranoid. He'll quickly throw Mathieu's lover out of his household without bothering to verify whether it is true."

"Why not just tell him about his son?" she asked.

"Because that would besmirch the boy's name and his family has power you'd be better not to test," Taesas said. "The Lord will be pleased to be alerted of the miscreant but spared a public embarrassment. And yet, Mathieu will suspect that it was you who responsible for him losing his boy. And thus, he will be repaid for mistreating you."

Marjerie nodded slowly as she absorbed the idea, smiling. "I like it."

"Consider it done."

"And you can do that?" she asked skeptically.

Taesas chuckled. "My lady, I play the Game and I play it well. I can do anything I want."

Well, almost anything, he thought to himself, but better that she didn't know that. This, at least, he could accomplish and easily.

"And what about Justine?" she asked as a follow up.

"That is a little more complicated, but not impossible," he said, no longer seeing the man in purple. Still, better not to take chances. "Have you eaten, Marjerie? Please, join me for a lunch and a bit of wine. My treat. If you're able, of course. We can discuss the Chanderelles, if you like."

"I should be going home. My mother-"

"I believe she was heading upstairs to nap," Taesas interrupted. "I had just come over from visiting her. I could hardly believe that she is having another child."

"Yeah, me either," Marjerie scoffed. Maybe he liked her more than he thought.

"Well, if you're needing to head home-"

"No, no, it'll be fine," she said, shaking off her earlier excuse. "Except, maybe no wine. Wine makes me sick."

Taesas chuckled again.

"A pity, that. But Orlais has plenty more to offer than wine," he said, offering a hand to her. "Come, my lady, allow me to escort you."

* * *

"I just don't want to end up being some baby oven," Marjerie repeated for about the dozenth time as she thumped her nearly-empty glass down against the table.

It was a good thing the inn was mostly empty, because the young girl had had far too much to drink. There was no one of import here. Some traveling merchants from the Free Marches. A few low-ranking soldiers. And a couple old men who looked like they drank at the inn's bar often. They were poor, too poor to be here, in truth.

"I can understand how you might feel trapped," he sympathized as he sipped his red wine. "Having grown up in the Circle, I might have gone insane within its walls myself."

"How didn't you?" she asked, tossing the glass toward her face and sucking the last of the pinkish cranberry and liquor drink down.

"I made a few powerful friends, used my head and played the Game well," he said.

"I thought you were some kind of prostitute," she blurted. "When I saw you in Ceraux."

Taesas laughed, despite her crudeness. She was still young. She'd need to learn to hold a little alcohol and choose her words better, if she wanted to keep playing in the future. "There is a wide difference between a prostitute, a consort, an escort, a paramour and myself."

"I'm afraid I've kept you far later than I should have," he apologized, glancing out the window. It was early afternoon when they had sat down. Now it was well past dusk. He had enjoyed a light lunch, then conversation had dragged on and they had both enjoyed a dinner. The whole while, the drinks kept flowing.

"What time is it?" Marjerie asked, quinting toward the window.

"It's night," he said.

"Oh Maker, my mother is going to kill me!" she exclaimed as she pushed up from the table. As she did, the chair tipped backward and fell and Marjerie wobbled, nearly ready to follow it until Taesas leapt up and grabbed her hand to catch her.

"This is my fault," he said as he wrapped an arm around her lower back to steady her. "I should not have let you have so much to drink."

"I'm fine," Marjerie said, even as she swayed in his arm.

"No, it's far to your home and dark," he insisted. "Lydes is not nearly so safe as it once was. I have a room here. It's just up the stairs. You should stay here tonight. I can purchase another room. It's no trouble at all. And I'll take full responsibility with your mother tomorrow," he offered.

"Well, I guess," she said, then stopped. "No, you're right. I should assert myself. Just like you said, if anyone is to take my seriously. I need to do what _I_ want."

"Absolutely," Taesas agreed.

They began to walk slowly toward the stairs, Taesas holding her closely to keep her from tumbling. As they reached the steps, she took them slowly, one at a time, with his arm still wrapped around her back to keep from falling backward. At the top of the staircase, he turned her to the left, toward the final room at the end of the hall.

"Thank you, for everything today, Enchanter," Marjerie said.

"It's no trouble at all," he said. "I'm just glad I got this chance to get to know you better. You're a very bright and lovely girl. You can accomplish great things, if you choose to pursue them. I believe that."

They stopped outside the door of the inn room and Taesas let go of her as he inserted the key into the lock, twisted it and pushed the door open a crack.

He stopped, before entering, and looked over Marjerie again. Taesas brushed back a bit of her hair that had fallen across her face and tucked it behind her ear.

"I apologize in advance for saying it, Marjerie, but I must tell you that remind me so much of your mother."

He looked into her ice-blue eyes and over her near-black hair and smiled.

"You're very beautiful."

* * *

The front door was locked and she didn't have a key, so Marjerie knocked quickly.

After a moment, it swung wide, to her mother.

"Marjerie, where have you been all night?" Alycine demanded.

The girl, now with a large headache only made worse by the bright morning sun, ducked her eyes and quickly scurried inside the house without a word. Her boastful defiance had either been an act or she was feeling too ill or embarrassed to practice it. Either way, she escaped inside the house and quickly bounded up the stairs.

Taesas remained on the front step, with his hands clasped behind his back.

"Where was she?" Alycine asked.

"It's my fault," Taesas said, turning his eyes down with a faux sense of shame. "I ran across her in the park and invited her for lunch. Then we had a few drinks and I thought it better she sleep at the inn instead of attempting to make it home. I take full responsibility."

Alycine slapped him across his left cheek, something he had expected and didn't mind, even though there were people outside on the block this morning that might have seen or heard the crack of flesh on flesh.

She pressed her finger into his chest.

"Stay away from her," Alycine threatened.

"I assure you," he said as he pushed her finger off of his chest with his palm. "I was nothing but gentlemanly."

When Alycine slammed the door in his face, Taesas took a deep, relaxed breath, turned on his heel, and went about his business.


	43. Chapter 43

**Forty-three**

"Maker bless you, child."

The old woman's hands shook as she lowered the loaf of bread down and quickly tucked it under her arm as if she were making a quick getaway from a heist. Or, at least, as quick of a getaway as she could manage shuffling back toward her hovel.

Vell grabbed another loaf out of the sack and bent over the edge of the wagon to survey the hands thrust up toward her pleading for it. She pressed the loaf into the open palm of a young woman, the one with a baby cradled in her left arm and her right arm stretched up.

She dipped her arm back into the sack, retrieving the last thick, rounded, crusty loaf of bread. "My last one," she announced as the crowd of villagers pushed closer to the edge of the wagon with a renewed vigor.

There were far more hungry-looking women and elderly in the throng than she cared to see. Even though they had pretty much cleaned out the baker in Val Foret, it still didn't look like enough. There were a lot more people here starving than she thought was right, especially considering they had just ridden under the white-stone towers of the lavish Comte's keep on the road the day before. The drawbridge was up, the iron gate was down and crossbowmen stood on the rampart above the gatehouse glaring when the King's Men went marching past.

Roggi bared his hairy ass at them from the saddle of Rumbles.

It wasn't a pretty sight.

Roggi turned and spanked himself twice and goaded Merin, asking if he was interested. He adamantly protested he wasn't in between gagging sounds. Roggi bellowed and laughed and Talon bent down from the saddle of her horse to unabashedly tongue kiss the dwarf as he belted his pants back at his waist.

That, it turned out, was more or less the normal day-to-day with Roggi's band as they rode along the Imperial Highway charging down groups of Red Templars, Freemen, demons or Venatori and stopping at nearly every village along the way to assess the damage and find out if the townsfolk needed any kind of help.

They heard the same story over and over. Such and such had attacked. They tried to fight back but couldn't. The local nobles weren't doing shit in the midst of the civil war. People were being killed or dying of disease or starving to death.

Orlais was all gold and gems and wealth and culture, supposedly, because no one ever seemed to look at anything outside of their opulent cities packed with fucking _Orlesians._

Vell used her right hand to part the crowd of arms reaching up toward her to expose a little girl with black hair braided into pigtails, looking thin and hungry and tired and scared. She extended the loaf of bread down, nudging it toward the child. "Come one. This one's for you."

The girl took it in her small hands, even as some of the men around her gave disappointed glances at Vell. She didn't care. They could try to pull the bread out of the child's hands. They could try. And then Vell would break their arms.

The little girl smiled as she took a sniff of the still-pretty-fresh bread, then turned around and ran back through the crowd of people with the bread hoisted over her head like some trophy shouting "Momma! Momma! Momma! Look!"

Vell leaned back into the wagon and brushed her palms against each other. "Sorry, I'm all out," she said to the rest, answered by a chorus of disappointed groans as they began to disperse or move around to a different part of the wagon where the other mages were still passing out food.

As the townsfolk walked away, one man was moving the other direction, approaching them. He was younger, tall and strong. His right arm was hung up in a sling at his side, but otherwise he looked in good health. His coal-black hair was slightly shaggy and he was clean shaven under brown eyes.

"You're her. You're Vell. Of the Vellions, right?"

"I am," she said.

She was, technically.

She had to have that explained to her, a long talking-to over several tankards of ale while Roggi explained, loudly, that he didn't appreciate her giving up a fat chest of loot, but that he was a forgiving dwarf and he understood a good opportunity when he saw it and she was going to figure out a way to pay him back for all the money she cost him and she could have a say in where they went and what they did and sod it, where was Talon because he wasn't going to get any less drunk or hard right now!

His lecture ended when he lost his ability to speak as Talon arrived, descended to her knees, opened his pants and took him inside her mouth down to the root. Nevermind that all of that happened in the middle of the camp with all the King's Men around with seemingly no desire for privacy. Malcolm had watched silently and wide-eyed sipping his ale as he wanted the entire act from start to completion in quiet, lustful admiration of Talon.

"I knew it!" he said excitedly. "We heard you were coming. Did you take care of those demons at the river?"

"Dead and dealt with," she reported. They had picked up word at the last village that demons had run the locals away from the bend in the river where the current slowed and the fish were easier to catch with a net or speared with a pointed stick. "Be careful, though. There's a rift out in the woods nearby. Probably where the demons came from in the first place."

"Oh, thank you. Maker, thank you. The Grand Duke's men seized our grain stores last winter. Without the river, we've barely been able to survive," he said.

"We're glad to help," Vell said with a nod.

"Oh, I'm, sorry, I'm," he moved his right arm in the sling, cringed in discomfort, then extended his left hand up. "I'm Micah. I'm our mayor. Kind of. Well, until we get a new one."

She shook his hand, awkwardly, not being used to meeting people with her left hand. Or meeting them at all. "New one?"

"Yeah. The previous one, the real one, got, uh, got killed. Demons. Townspeople asked me to step in. Temporarily. Just until, you know, just until things are back to normal."

Was he older than her, Vell wondered? He looked maybe a little older. She didn't understand why he sounded so nervous. He was a human, after all. Not a bad-looking human, she thought, either. Compared to the other people around town, at least.

"Hopefully they'll be back to normal sooner than later," she said with a smile.

"I hope so, too," he said.

"It was nice meeting you, Micah," Vell said and began to turn to see how the others were doing with their handouts when he called up to her again.

"Ummm, Vell? I mean, I mean miss or madam or-"

"Vell is fine," she said. Maybe his awkward schtick was a little adorable, especially considering the muscles she could see under the sleeves of his shirt.

"Right, sorry. Umm. Well, if you don't have to be on the road again. You could, we'd be happy to, uh, I mean, the Vellions could stay here tonight?" He pointed toward the center of town. "The well is still good and there's room in the town hall for some people to sleep under a roof. And, umm, we'd be happy to have you. Because of all you've done for us. We just, we really appreciate it."

"That's generous of you, but," she glanced over her shoulder toward Roggi, who happened to have some of the women from the town gathered around him, squeezing and prodding his biceps and giggling. How? What? "My friends can get a little… rowdy, let's say."

Micah glanced over, following her eyes at Roggi, who was now showing off one of his axes. Vell hoped he wasn't explaining how he named the axes and/or inviting any of the women to become his next implement. Micah turned back to her.

"That's fine," he said, although he didn't sound too sure, before trying again a little more confidently. "Yes, that's fine."

The young acting mayor nodded and smiled.

"We could all use a good time, considering what we've been through."

* * *

Vell picked up her cup of ale, half full, then placed it back down without taking a drink.

The town's great hall was as rowdy as she expected, roaring all around her. If this were those early days of Haven, or that first week at Skyhold, she'd probably be stumbling outside to throw up and then coming back inside grabbing at the human men's pants to see which one she would take out to the stable for a midnight ride.

Roggi hadn't spared the casks or the King's Men's food either. The townsfolk were nearly drooling all over themselves when they had watched the hog spinning on a spit for the hours it had taken to get it perfectly brown and crispy and crackling before the dwarf took an axe to it and started hacking off rough-hewn chunks of greasy meat.

The chunk of meat Roggi had tossed into her small wooden bowl was half-eaten and cold now.

There was music and dancing and a lot of raucous laughter in the hall. Roggi had a gaggle of children surrounding him in an arc, his crown crooked on his head, ale spilled in his beard, as he was telling some story involving a dragon or an ogre or a Qunari warlord or something. She couldn't exactly hear, only see that whatever he was describing he was doing so with big sweeps of his arms that it was big.

One of the townsfolk had given Jac her eight-stringed lute to try out. He had strummed it, stopped, retuned the strings by ear despite the noise around him, and then began plucking out a few songs that she wasn't sure how he knew how to play. She never remembered the Templars letting any mages have musical instruments in White Spire. Maybe things were different in Montsimmard.

Malcolm was off in the corner with his cup of ale and with Talon, who was sitting in his lap and running her fingers along the curls of his red beard. Every now and then he'd look over to see if Roggi was looking, but the dwarf was paying him no mind. Vell wondered what was going through his head and whether he was contemplating how Roggi would enjoy killing him in the morning if he did anything.

Despite the atmosphere, Vell found herself still sitting in the same spot on the bench as everything and everyone else moved around her.

"You should enjoy yourself," Merin said as he took a seat down next to her, with his own full cup of ale.

She brushed off the suggestion. Merin glanced up, following Vell's eyes to where she was watching the mayor across the room and pointed with the rim of his cup "He likes you, you know."

The young mayor Micah would look in her direction every couple minutes, even as he talked with the other townsfolk or danced with some of the old women or the young women as the music played.

"How do you know?"

"I know the look. Also because I like you," Micah said as he raised an eyebrow and took a drink, giving her a slight nudge with his elbow. He placed the cup back down on the table and held it with both hands. "I mean, yeah, he's tall and has the body. But me, I'm charming."

"I don't-"

"-do elves," he finished for her. "Yeah, I know. But see, I think there's been a misunderstanding. When you say 'do,' do you mean 'do' as in ' _do'_ or-"

Vell shook her head. "I mean 'do' as in, 'I do not like elves.'"

Merin shrugged, not seeming overly deflated. "You're breaking my heart, Vell."

"Sorry," she said, cracking a small smile and giving him a nudge back with her own elbow. She took a drink from her cup. She looked back up at the young mayor. "And why would he like me? I'm an elf. And a mage. Or a freak apostate abomination, if you believe that senile Chanter from the last town over."

The old man had heard about the rift mages too, but he wasn't quite as enthusiastic about their arrival as Micah had been this morning. The Chanter had followed them around town, screaming something about blasphemy until Roggi had got tired and offered to give the man a _very_ close shave with his axe if he didn't shut up.

Micah stopped his spinning with one of the town girls again and glanced over in her direction once more. He smiled, but was soon grabbed away by another girl and was whirling again. He looked happy. Carefree.

His people were starving and the town was half destroyed. One unusually large attack and they'd all be wiped off the map.

And yet, he danced.

Merin shook his head. "He doesn't care about that. He cares that you came here and are doing something. He cares that you care."

Vell glanced up toward the door as she caught motion out of the corner of her eye. A group of men had come inside, including soldiers wearing armor and carrying swords at their hips. She nudged Merin with her elbow as she took a drink from her cup, pointing his eyes in that direction too.

"What is going on here?!"

As people turned to the booming shout of the man in the doorway, the music abruptly cut, the dancing stopped and everyone seemed to turn on their heel toward the door.

"Comte, Comte Chartre!" Micah said as he hurried across the hall to meet the noble in the doorway. "We weren't expecting you."

"I can see that," the noble said. He had a dark beard with a large moustache that drooped off his face. He looked right past Micah as he stepped around the young man, scanning the hall. "It takes some _gall_ to have a _feast,_ especially when I have not received the required tax from this dismal village for _months_!"

The comte glanced around the room, looking at the villagers one by one. "And where is my cousin? Where is Albert?" He glanced now back at Micah. "Where is your mayor, boy?"

Micah swallowed. "The mayor, he, umm, your cousin was-"

"Come on, boy! Out with it!"

"He was killed, my lord. He tried to run off the demons by the mill and-"

"Killed?" the comte said. "I send my cousin here to fix your pathetic little town, and you tell me that he was killed? By demons?"

"Yes, yes, m'lord," Micah said, bowing his head.

The comte glanced around the room at the townsfolk and at the King's Men, then snorted. "Funny, I have not seen any demons roaming _my_ land. Funny, also, that I sent my cousin here to make sure that I began getting _my_ tax that is _my_ right as your lord, and then he is 'killed by demons.'"

"It's the truth, m'lord," Micah tried to say.

He snorted at that too. "I am Comte!" he shouted, pounding his open hand against his chest producing three loud thumps. " _I_ am your lord! _You_ work this land at _my_ pleasure! _You_ pay taxes to _me_ for _my_ protection! I cannot explain it any simpler to you mud-headed peons!"

Micah lowered his head even lower, not planning to protest.

"Then maybe you should actually protect them instead of sitting in your shiny fucking towers!"

Vell slammed down her empty cup onto the table, rattling the dishes and silverware as the entire table seemed to bounce off the floor. She pressed her palms into the edge of the table and she shoved her way up from the bench.

The Comte turned in his fury toward her, his hand bending down instinctively toward his sword belt. "You insolent knife-eared bitch!"

As his hand wrapped around the grip of his sword, there was a loud clank from the back of the hall, the sound of a great-axe thumping down into the surface of one of the tables.

The Comte stopped as he looked over at Roggi, who was leaning on the haft of a large silverite axe, with his tankard of ale still in his other hand. "You might want to think twice about that, friend," Roggi said with a playful wink that was clearly meant as a threat. "She's with me. And so are the rest of my boys."

Roggi tipped the mug back to his mouth as the rest of the King's Men very deliberately reached toward their own weapons to let the Comte know just how outnumbered he and his four bodyguards were if a fight were to break out.

The Comte eased his hand away from his sword and gave a hard stare back at Vell. "I remember you. Those, miscreants - no - bandits, who passed my keep."

"We're the Vellions," Vell said as she began to march toward him. "And we came to clean up the mess left around here that the nobles don't seem to be cleaning up themselves.

"See, we're the ones who went down to the river and took care of the demons that have been plaguing this village," she said as she looked around at the King's Men, who raised their mugs and gave a hoot. "We're the ones who gave these starving people some food. We're the ones who are protecting these people, because it's obvious you're not."

"How dare you, you-"

The Comte stopped and shut his mouth as Vell pulled out her silver Inquisition badge and thrust it toward his face. He seemed to pale and shrink all at once, his tongue caught between his little pig teeth.

"You recognize that, don't you?" she said as she pushed it a little closer to him, pressing the metal insignia closer until it was just an inch or two from his nose. "You don't want to cross this, do you?"

The Comte swallowed and pulled his head back as Vell continued to inch it forward, fully content to rub it right in his face if he didn't move. He stepped back, into the cushion of his four bodyguards, who closed around him as he began to retreat back toward the door. "I didn't realize you were-"

"Shut up," Vell said, interrupting him as she shoved the badge back into her pocket. "You're going to go back to your shiny castle and then tomorrow, you're going to send your own men out to patrol the roads and protect the villages. And when these good people are able to safely get back to their fields and streams without fear of dying, then you'll get your money. And if you don't, and I have to come back here to help these people again..."

Vell punched her right fist into her left palm, letting a burst of green smoke puff out from around her knuckles, not saying anything more.

The Comte's lip twitched, no doubt roiling inside to spit some kind of curse or slur at her - a mage, a woman and an elf - but he instead turned, swirling his cloak and exited without another word, his soldiers following him back out into the darkness.

Vell watched him go, feeling a warm rush in her stomach in realizing that she just got away with telling off some prissy-ass _Orlesian_ Comte. Fuck him. And fuck the horse he rode in on.

A small hum of chatter picked up as she watched the Comte and his men hop back onto their horses and gallop away into the dusk. Then the first flute began to play cautiously play again, slowly at first until no one objected or shouted, then picking back up to normal speed. Within a few more seconds, the sounds of merriment from earlier began to fill the hall again as everyone went back to what they were doing before as if nothing had happened at all.

"That was… that was, amazing," Micah said as he came up to her side. "I can't believe you, I mean, I hope he doesn't cause us any trouble because of..."

"If he does, you send word to me and we'll deal with him," Vell said, still staring out into the town square even though the Comte and his men were now long gone.

"We will. Of course we will. I can't thank you enough," Micah began spurting.

Vell stopped him as she stuck her finger inside the collar of his shirt and pulled him back inside.

Merin was right, she deserved to have some fun.

"You can try making it up to me now," she said as she took Micah by his one good arm.

"Come on. Come dance with me."


	44. Chapter 44

**Forty-four**

He looked old.

They had caked too much powder on his face to try to hide the pallid grey of his flesh. The shirt he wore looked stiff and dusty and should have been chosen in a rich green or deep purple instead of a white that only made his skin look more wan. And there was something off about the ways his fingers were curled around the ceremonial sword that rested down the center of his chest, although Taesas couldn't exactly put his finger on what it was aside from the fact that the man hadn't likely lifted a sword since his teenage years.

Marquis Brevere would scowl in distaste if he were alive to see his own funeral viewing.

The entire display - from the altar they laid him upon to the standing arches of flowers that surrounded him to the urns they had chosen as decoration - all of it looked as if it had been prepared by someone who barely knew the Marquis at all.

And that was because it had been arranged by his lady wife, who he had despised his entire life and who had equally despised him. The subtle choices were no doubt all done intentionally, a signal to all of the enlightened players of the Game to read as the last, bitter insults between two married nobles who never loved the other a single day in their lives.

The north vestibule was one of Antone's least favorite parts of his house, one that he had decorated and redecorated at least a half dozens times over the past decade and still wasn't satisfied with the last time Taesas had called on the man at home. So, of course, it was where his wife had chosen to host the viewing.

Taesas didn't know how they had managed to cram Brevere's golden wedding band back onto his finger, considering that he had been a much thinner man on his wedding day. The metal was shined and looked new for the simple reason that it was mostly new. Taesas couldn't remember a single instance he had ever seen the man wearing it in public or private.

And the garment she had chosen for him was too small and too tight for his large stomach. He had much more well-fitting and fashionable clothes in his extensive wardrobe. None of the clothes could disguise that the marquis was significantly overweight, but several outfits Taesas could remember would certainly have given a more flattering impression of the man.

There were a few dozen people in the estate, but Taesas was one of the few in the viewing room. Most were in the northern dining room, sipping wine and chatting cordially as if they had been invited to a late-summer garden party instead of a funeral. A few of the nobles were drinking in the library, discussing business. The Chantry acolyte, the one who was supposed to be presiding over the viewing and reciting the Chant over the altar, was instead in the corner of the antechamber quietly blushing while talking with a dashing young man who was clearly noble but who Taesas didn't recognize.

All of it was a damnable insult to a good man.

Perhaps the greater insult was the story that was being told about how he had passed.

Brevere had begun feeling ill during dinner but continued, attributing it to some minor indigestion. Halfway through his entree, though, it was being told, he clutched at his heart before falling out of his chair onto the floor.

Taesas could see Brevere's wife Margot now in the dining room, dressed in black and dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a kerchief despite there being no tears there. She beamed, though, every time another visitor took her hand and expressed their condolences.

The marquis was not a young man, or a spry man, or a fit man. It was, perhaps, possible that his heart had seized during dinner, valves and arteries choked closed by years of the incredibly rich foods that had stretched his waistline far outward. It was, if nothing else, plausible.

More likely was that Margot had poisoned him.

Taesas couldn't be sure why, exactly. Perhaps whatever most recent spat they had had pushed her over the edge. Maybe it was just the accumulation of years of mutual contempt between them. Possible that the Game presented an opening that she wanted to exploit, although unlikely considering she was a halfwit when it came to intrigue.

Regardless, she had the initiative to move against him. Successfully, nonetheless. That bit was the most perplexing. Such as accomplishment was far beyond the limited wit of an vacuous dullard such as Margot. The more interesting thread he would need to follow was who had been foolish enough to aid her and what they had asked for in exchange for dirtying their hands in such unavailing mariticide.

"My friend," Taesas said to the corpse. "I can't even begin to think of all that I owe you for the friendship and aid you've given me these past years."

Where might he have ended up if not for Brevere's interest and mentoring? True, Vivienne had given him the initial coaching in how to play the Game and, especially, how to play it well within the Circle. But Brevere, Brevere had a different perspective because he played the Game on a different field.

He was wealthy, but not nearly as rich as any of the Orlesian dukes above him. He did not have an interest in military tactics and did not care for the friendship or company of chevaliers who might give the impression that he was a man willing to go to war over his aspirations. His holdings were far away from the southern spheres of Val Royeaux and the Heartlands, but he remained relevant while anyone less influential might be dismissed as some backwater lord.

His money had poured in the Chantry, the Circle and, specifically, to Taesas in order to curry and keep his favor. Yes, the Marquis made no attempts to hide his unburdened physical desire, but he had been equally content to discuss current events over a glass of wine in his study or to quietly converse in the midst of a swirling fete with little regard for who might be eavesdropping.

He had been a patron, the first and the foremost among many nobles who had sponsored his abilities since. And yet, like Alycine, Brevere was one of the few who never gave the impression that he summoned the Enchanter simply to use his flesh.

Taesas leaned down, growing closer to Brevere's face and lowered his voice to a whisper. "I will make certain that justice is done for this loathsome deed."

Taesas smiled to himself at the prospect of finding those responsible and exacting vengeance upon them. For such a man as Brevere, he might have to repay them double for their crimes.

"Thank you, for everything, my dearest Antone."

He bent a little lowered and placed a soft kiss upon the Marquis' dead lips. If the stories of afterlife in the Maker's kingdom were indeed true, he knew that kiss would rumble the foundations of the Fade itself on its way to be joyously collected by Antone.

Taesas wiped his lips of the chalky taste of powder and stepped back from the altar. He crossed to the back of the antechamber, stopping before a younger man, dressed in black, stitched with gold, with a sword belt and an ornately jeweled scabbard resting at his left him. The boy's brows were bent in, his cleanly shaved jaw stiff and hard. He was an austere man, grim and dour.

He had traveled far away from this house and sought a life elsewhere, where the currents of bitter hate of his parents that swirling around and permeated through this home could no longer infect him. Unfortunately, the animosity between his parents had scarred him and transformed him long, long before he was ever able to escape this place.

"Amaury," Taesas said with a slight bow. "My deepest condolences to you. Your father was a great man. He'll be deeply missed. By me. By us all."

"You can take your flattery elsewhere, Enchanter. I have no patience for it," he scoffed, not that Taesas hadn't expected such bluntness out of the boy.

"My apologies," Taesas said, not meaning it. "I only wish to say that I hope you enjoy as much prosperity and success as your father, and to express my hope that you will always consider me a friend of House Brevere, in appreciation for the breadth of your father's friendship and generosity."

Amaury soured visibly, lifting his left hand to rest it atop the pommel of his sword. If it was meant to be a threat, it was not much of one. No doubt the young lordling thought that standing in such a way made him look more dignified and important. Little did he know that the creases in his visage would always tell people of what he truly was - a bitter, angry child.

"That won't be necessary," Amaury said. "I've been aware of my father's more ignoble preoccupations for many years, you most of them. There will be no such despicable attachments in my house as Marquis."

Taesas had to stifle a laugh at the thought of Amaury standing as Marquis. It bubbled up from his lungs, caught by his tongue and swallowed back down.

"If I had the power, I would ensure that debauched animals such as yourself stay locked within the tower where you belong," Amaury growled.

Taesas could not withhold a smirk in response to that bit of vitriol. Amaury couldn't even wing an insult correctly. Did he mean to offend Taesas for his licentious behavior, or to slur him as a mage or as an elf? None of it was clear.

Amaury Brevere was as hamfisted with a word as he was no doubt with that sword. The faded markings upon the leather grip showed that he held it improperly, suggesting his strikes would be more likely to glance off armor if he ever needed to swing the blade in an attempt to draw blood.

With the array of nobles swirling like vultures, waiting to eat the carrion of dead Antone's legacy, it might not be too long before Amaury found himself lifting that sword in an effort to keep his blood inside of him inside of spilled in a nondescript wood somewhere in a classic Orlesian "hunting accident."

The boy knew little of the world, and the Empire was sure to eat him alive for it. Taesas would not even need to intervene in order to see the boy humbled. The Game would bring him to his knees soon enough, where he would look up from the ruins of all that had collapsed around him and pray to the Maker for friends as canny and generous as Taesas.

"Regardless," Taesas said with a slight, appeasing nod despite the fact the boy did not deserve it. "I pray for your strength, that you recover well and deftly from your grief."

He excused himself from the stormy presence of Brevere's son, his only son.

Almost immediately a servant stepped forward to flag his attention.

"Enchanter Taesas, I presume?" the servant asked. He was aged, older that Brevere, and wrinkled. He wore fine black clothes, including a pair of very neatly stitched black gloves. And, most noticeably to likely everyone else in the room, he was an elf.

"I am."

The elf pointed toward the hallway, away from the funeral viewing and toward the living area of the home. Taesas began to walk, with the servant falling in step next to him. "I am glad that you have arrived. The master entrusted me with some special instructions in the event of his untimely demise. He asked me to relay them to you in his absence."

"We grieve a great man, but if I might be able to execute some last request of his will, I will be contented to serve. Lead on."

The servant towed him up the main central staircase and down the long hall adorned with Brevere's numerous pieces of collected art. Through the tall windows, Taesas could see the semi-overcast sky, a vibrant late-summer blue except in the places dotted by the white and gray clouds floating through. Outside, the flowers and trees and bushes were all as vibrant a green as they had ever been. None of it looked as if it missed Brevere.

He led Taesas to Brevere's study, a comfortable room in the back corner of the estate with windows on two sides, a few well-worn, comfortable leather charges in the corner where the windowed walls met, a large bookshelf on the opposite wall with the Marquis' desk under it, and a large painting of Val Royeaux at night that took up nearly all of the wall with the door inside of it. Taesas had been here before, numerous times. It was one of the smaller rooms in the manor, but one that Brevere spent an extensive amount of time in conducting business. Here, maybe more than anywhere else on the grounds, felt the most like Antone.

"The master asked that I deliver this box to you," the servant said as he removed three books from the bookshelf, revealing a small locked panel in the wall behind it. He produced a small golden key, slipped it into the lock and gave it a twist. The door swung open and he reached inside, producing a small, gray metal box from within. The servant turned and handed it to Taesas.

The box had no keyhole, no hinges, nor seams. It looked almost as if it were all forged of one solid piece. "The master said you would know how to open it."

Indeed he did.

Taesas pushed a bit of mana into the metal, watching as invisible lines began to snake around the sides of the box and over the top, tracing elaborate patterns. His fingers traced over the runes, unlocking the one on the back side first, then the top, then the left panel until the top panel of the box lifted and slid away.

Of course he recognized how to open the mages' puzzle box. They were sometimes used in the Circle, but more often given as gifts, curiosities, to those outside of the Circle, often containing illicit or improper gifts that were only to be opened in the company of their mage givers.

Taesas recognized this box specifically, because he had gifted it to Brevere about ten years ago.

"Thank you," Taesas said to the servant as he lifted the thin metal lid away as the runes released it. "You are dismissed."

The elf bowed his head and left, shutting the door behind him as went, leaving Taesas alone in the study.

There were only two items inside the box. The first, was an iron key. The second, was a piece of paper, folded and sealed with wax, stamped with the Marquis' seal. He lifted the paper from underneath, split the seal with his finger and opened it.

A letter:

 _My dearest Taesas,_

 _If you're reading this, it means that I have been prematurely called to the Maker's side. Do not weep for me, for all my life I have delighted in the pleasures of this earth. I have been incredibly fortunate and, for that, I depart this world without sadness._

 _It's said a man who plays the Game should never request a favor of anyone lest he be in their debt some day, but now that I am gone, I feel unburdened to ask for your aid in one final matter. I have spent my entire life building the legacy I leave behind me, and I have little confidence that it will persist and sustain under the care of my son. In time, I have little doubt that all I leave behind to him will be squandered or taken in one way or another and that my House will collapse upon itself. Maker forgive me, it is my own failing. Were I a better father, I might have been able to groom my only son into a man worthy to succeed me. But, alas, it will remain one of my greatest failures in life._

 _My request is simple, selfish, perhaps. My pleasure villa in the hills - you have met me there before - I ask that you raze it to the ground. You may do whatever you wish with the possessions within, I only ask that neither my son nor wife ever lay claim to any of it. I love that house dearly, and for it to be spoiled by either of them would be an unforgivable crime._

 _If you will do this for me, I have left you a gift within. In my bedroom at the villa, I have left a box hidden beneath a loose tile under my bed. The key within this box will open the lock. What is inside will help protect you from the one who could do you most harm. I want you to have it and to carry on, to shape Orlais for the better in my stead._

 _With that, there is little else I need to say except that, Taesas, of all the Maker's creations, I have never loved any of them in such a way as I have loved you. I hope that the many times I have called upon you over these short, wonderful years were not an exercise in torture. For all the wealth and influence and power I had gained in my life, I would have traded it all just to spend a few more minutes in your company and to know that the love I felt for you might, somehow, by some chance, be felt by you for me. You are that which has always been most precious to me since the day we met._

 _My greatest regret is that I never could find a means by which to release you from the stresses and burdens that weigh you down. I pray that you will finally obtain that which you have always desired most, for you had given me you, and I could seek no greater gift than that._

 _Be well, my beautiful and brilliant Taesas._

 _With my undying love,  
_ _Antone_

Taesas lowered the letter, folded it, and crumpled it into his left hand. He let the magical fire within his fist scorch and consume the paper until his hand was filled with ash. He opened his hand, letting the blackened dust fall upon the carpet before taking the key from the box and depositing it into his pocket.

He placed the empty box upon Brevere's desk and turned to the decanter of red wine on the corner of the desk. He took one of the glasses, one of those meant for water and not for wine, and splashed a bit into the bottom of the cup.

From within his sleeve, he retrieved the vial of white powder, took the stopper out, and tipped it into the glass. He swirled the wine around, watching it slosh over the clump of powder until it melted into the blood-red alcohol and disappeared in solution. Taesas gripped the bottom of the cup in his palm, letting more magical fire lick up the sides of the glass as he watched the wine begin to quickly bubble and boil until he could smell the scent of evaporating alcohol in the tendrils of steam that rose from it.

The small bit of wine began to reduce and thicken, bubbling in thick, purple-black clumps. He eased back the heat, changing out the fire for a bit of frost in his palm slowly to cool the glass. The liquid inside began to settle down, easing into a dark sludge-like consistency until it finally settled and set into a gel.

Taesas brought the edge of the glass to his nose, smelling it. The scent of wine had faded and beyond the subtle tone of smoke, he could smell an almost sweet note in the mixture.

Perfect.

He dipped two fingers into the gel, taking a glob of it out onto his fingertips as he lightly smeared the mixture across his lips. When finished, he wiped the remainder of the substance off his fingers on the inside of his left sleeve before placing the glass into his puzzlebox, replacing the lid and resealing it with runes. He tucked it under his arm and exited the study.

He returned to the funeral, passing by Brevere's altar and pausing one last time to look at his now-deceased patron, before continuing on into the dining room.

"Margot," he said, interrupting the nobodies she was talking with. That caused her to scowl, scrunching her pig nose into a clump. She quietly apologized to the man and woman she had been talking to before devoting her attention to him. "My condolences."

"Thank you, Enchanter," she said more cordially than he might have expected considering her low opinion of him.

"Such a regrettable loss. I can hardly believe that he is gone so soon."

Margot faked a sniffle, grabbed her handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at the corners of her eyes as she had been doing the entire day. "I wish there was something I could have done to prevent this. But the Maker works in mysterious ways."

Hardly, Taesas thought. There was no grand scheme behind this death. There was only the meddling of a disgruntled wife and some foolish co-conspirators not realizing what they had unleashed upon themselves once he found out who they were and why they had acted on her behalf.

"I would stay longer, but I fear I have Inquisition business in the region I cannot delay any longer," he lied. "Before I go, though, I feel it's necessary to share one thing with you.

"I know your relationship with Antone was, let's say, rocky for many years," Taesas said, trying to put it as nicely as it could. "But he confided in me that he always wanted to repair the divide that had grown between you. Antone, as you know, was a perfectionist. He never felt he could find just the right way to begin and, sadly, never was able to try before his passing."

"I had no idea, Enchanter," Margot said.

She didn't sound surprised and she shouldn't be, because the entire story was fabricated. Over the years, he and Brevere had spent more time discussing various ways to remove her from his life from a simple divorce to more elaborate ideas about how he might be able to arrange for her to be trampled to death by hogs than they ever had discussing the few positive aspects of his wife. Aside from her noble name and lineage, she offered so very little to him.

"In his place, please allow me to make the effort on his behalf," Taesas said.

He leaned down, embracing her in his arms. He slowly planted a firm kiss upon her left cheek. Oh how Brevere might cringe to see Taesas debasing himself in such a way. The Marquis would forgive, though.

Taesas gave Margot one last small squeeze and whispered into her ear.

"Antone sends all his love."

With that, he let go of her and backed away, turning and heading toward the front door without another word. As he passed through the north antechamber, he gave a subtle nod to Amaury as he passed, met by the young man's harsh stare that followed him out of the room.

Once out of the vestibule and turned down the hall toward the exit, Taesas wiped his lips with the back of his right hand. With his left, he retrieved the second vial concealed inside his sleeve and tipped the small glass into his mouth, swishing the clear liquid around his teeth and running his wettened tongue across his lips.

At the worst, he might be struck with a fit of vomiting later tonight from the few minutes of exposure to the poison on his lips before taking the antidote.

Margot, on the other hand, wouldn't realize that anything was wrong until later this evening when she was burning with fever and struggling for every breath until her lungs were choked closed and her body starved of air. If she could retain consciousness, she might be able to see her flesh begin to turn blue before feeling her heart thumping irregularly and, finally, seizing.

He hoped Amaury would be there to watch his mother struggling. He hoped the boy was ripped in two by a conflicted grief, in trying to reconcile whether he felt joy or sadness at losing both of his parents whom he had a troubled past with in less than a week. He hoped both of them knew precisely that it was him, that he had not waited one moment longer than he needed to deal them retribution for their graceless enmity.

Perhaps in those last moments, Margot would realize the gravity of the mistake she had made.

Perhaps once she ceased to be, Antone would be able to find the peace he deserved in the afterlife.

Perhaps then, Taesas could begin to grieve.


	45. Chapter 45

**Forty-five**

"You know the drill," Roggi said as he fanned the cards out, face down, in his hand, "Draw 'em."

The Red Templars, the big fucking juggernaut ones that were now more giant crystals than they were human, were battering on the wooden palisade and the town wouldn't hold for much longer. But custom was custom. The walls would hold the extra couple seconds it took to play Roggi's game. In truth, Vell was feeling pretty good about her odds this afternoon. She couldn't exactly say why, but she felt lucky.

Draw the high card, win the right to strike the first blow.

It didn't sound like much of a prize, maybe, to anyone who hadn't gotten the opportunity to lead Roggi and his entire company down a hillside right into the side of some unsuspecting enemy and watch them nearly shit themselves when they realized what was happening.

And the first one to get hit almost _never_ saw it coming, so something amazing always happened when you hit them upside the head with the full force of a downhill charge.

Vell snapped a card from Roggi's mitts and turned it over to herself.

Knight of Roses.

Vell didn't bother to conceal her squeal of delight as everyone else drew. Knights were the ideal suit in Roggi's rulebook. Outside of the Knight of Dawn and the Angel of Death, nothing beat that.

"Fuck this game," Malcolm said as he tossed his card to the ground, revealing the Serpent of Sadness, literally the worst card to draw, then threw his arms over his head as he stomped away.

Roggi, Talon, Merin and Jac didn't betray what they were holding, each glancing suspiciously at the other. The dwarf folded the remaining cards into his palm and dropped them back into the leather pouch where he kept his Wicked Grace deck.

"Show 'em," Roggi said.

Vell immediately flipped her card around, hoisting it up. "Knight of Roses! Take that you-"

She stopped dead as she looked over at the dwarf, grinning widely with the Angel of Death pinched between two fingers.

"Whoops. Looks like I win," he said with a shrug as he tossed the pouch toward Vell and flicked the card into the air. "Clean 'em up. Better luck next time, Rainbows."

Roggi was already turned around and cramming his helmet onto his head, leaping up the backside of Rumbles and checking the multiple axes he had strapped to the saddle.

Vell stared at her card, still looking in disbelief as the others slid their cards back into the deck. "The _one_ time I draw a good card and Roggi wins. Again! He always wins!"

Talon snickered as she began stringing her bow. "He wins because he cheats."

What? She had been watching his hands the entire time, specifically to make sure he wasn't cheating. Roggi, somehow, won like two-thirds of the time, but she had never seen him sneaking cards. He even offered to let whoever wanted shuffle and cut the deck whenever they wanted so that he couldn't stack it. Malcolm had shuffled it, twice, and cut it and restacked it three times this time, having grown increasingly frustrated at never winning.

"Roggi!" Vell shouted. "Roggi, did you cheat?"

He didn't answer as he kicked his heels into Rumbles and the bronto began to lumber down the hill. As it began to move, he tossed his right hand up over his head, throwing a spray of cards into the air.

Vell ran over and inspected the cards in the snow - she didn't exactly understand why there was snow on the ground in the Emprise in the middle of summer, but that was an entirely different question altogether and less pressing at the moment - and found, an Angel of Death. And a second Angel of Death. And a third. A fourth and fifth and sixth.

"Roggi!" she shouted, although he was already bouncing halfway down the hill on his bronto, bellowing.

She could hear Talon laughing again behind her. "Told you."

"He's not going to get away with this," Vell said as she cracked her knuckles on both hands. "This one's mine. I won it. He's not getting it!"

"You should just let him hav-"

Merin's voice cut as she pushed her foot into the snow and burst ahead down the hill, pushing aside the Veil as she picked up speed. She could feel it moving with each pump of her arms as her feet bounced off the ground and she slipped into those places in between as the currents ebbed out of the way. Her speed picked up, snow and sparse trees whipping by faster and faster until they were all one multi-colored blur out of the sides of her eyes.

She could see Rumbles ahead of her, the bronto's huge ass and the huge ass of a dwarf sitting atop it growing closer and closer as she began to overtake Roggi.

Once an accident within the walls of Adamant Fortress, she had taken some time to stop and think about how she had whipped her way through the castle at speeds beyond what was normally possible. It had taken several weeks of trying, testing, failing, running into objects she couldn't see at speeds she shouldn't have been capable of running at. But finally she had managed to figure it out.

Rumbles was fast - or at least, fast compared to her based-on-nothing preconception of how fast a bronto should be able to run - but the beefy beast couldn't hold a step with her when she really took flight. Vell ripped past Roggi's right side, lining up the first Red Templar down on a knee and pointing a bow up over the walls of the town.

It never even turned its head toward her as she pulled her fist behind her and fell out of her sprint, unloading a massive punch along the side of the cracked helmet split by red lyrium crystals.

The crack as the Veil snapped with the strike nearly knocked her backward. The body ragdolled, scraping and skipping across the surface of the snow, arms and legs flailing out as it left a smoking smear across the surface.

"Get some!" she taunted at the now-dead Red Templar, flexing and preening for a moment until she was forced to bounce out of the way as one of the two juggernauts slammed its massive, crystalline fist into the snow where she had been standing just a moment before.

Roggi had caught up now as Rumbles lowered his horned head and charged directly into the lumbering giant, horns crashing right into where the Templar's cock would have been if he still had one somewhere beneath the jagged crystals that protruded from around his abdomen. There was a spray of broken stone as Rumbles plowed it backward, the juggernaut holding its feet despite the powerful charge of the bronto.

The rest of the wild, screaming, charging King's Men were now rushing down the hill into the fray as the Red Templars turned away from the wooden palisade gate of the fortified town and toward the new approaching enemy. No time to wait for them to full arrive, Vell, thought, as Rumbles took a heavy blow to the flank strong enough to move him and the swearing, laughing, bellowing dwarf atop his back to the side.

"Not fucking bad!" Roggi shouted as he dropped his riding axe into a loop and yanked out from another Nani, the beefy spiked warhammer named after a topsider dwarf Roggi swore rode him on top so hard she broke all four legs of the bed _and_ the headboard. "My turn!"

Rumbles bounded forward and Roggi wound the giant hammer back behind his head with both hands, slamming the spiked head into the right knee of the juggernaut, spraying bits of crystal again as the monster staggered.

As the juggernaut wound up to hit him again, Vell crouched to a knee, pointing the joined heels of her hands together as she sprayed a jet of flame up across its head, stopping its counterattack as it brought its arms around to cover its face and fend off the fire as Rumbles lumbered away and deeper into the battlefield to find another target.

"Allow me to give you a hand with that," Jac said as he slid to Vell's side, driving his staff into the snow as he extended his right arm out, spraying tendrils of lightning into the jet of flame.

"The right knee is weak!" Vell shouted out.

"On it!" Malcolm answered as he kept running in stride past them, curving out wide to the left as the juggernaut groaned, and tried to step forward through the wave of magic concentrated at it.

As it stomped with the weakened right leg deep into the snow, Malcolm set his angle and darted it, staff held out wide to his right side. Vell could feel the Veil swirl toward him as the head of the staff wrapped in green light. He swung, a long looping swing that reached out toward the damaged knee as he threw the force of the Veil toward the juggernaut.

When the Veil crashed, the right leg of the juggernaut buckled and broke in two and the thing began to teeter toward the snow. As it went down, it drove its misshapen right fist down into the ground, catching itself before it completely fell.

"Mine! Mine!" Merin shouted, bringing up the rear as if he were an excited child trying to claim the last cookie.

He tucked his staff under his left armpit and across his back as he ran, head down, drawing the power into his right fist. The fallen juggernaut bellowed, a spray of red crystals exploding off its back in a sphere of shrapnel around it. Merin swept his staff out from behind him and across his body, the wave of force sweeping the crystals safely away as he closed right before the Templar's misshapen head.

His right arm bent and snapped back taut like a bowstring, thumb tucked into an otherwise open palm. He drove the point of his staff down into the ground and pushed his hand forward, the wall of force strong enough to snap back the head of the Templar and throw the entire corrupted body backward a dozen feet, motionless limbs tangling as they rolled across the snow.

As Vell stood, Jac was bending down brushing a bit of snow off of his shins before giving her a shrug and a small smile. "Need help with the other one?" he asked, his eyebrow giving a nod over her shoulder to where the other was still bashing on the palisades.

She smiled back. "Nah, I've got this one. Go find your own."

"If you insist," he said with another shrug, and trotted off to go find something else to smash.

Vell trotted toward the gate, tossing a small ball of fire ahead that burst against the juggernaut's back, just enough to turn its attention toward her. It swung both of its massive arms at her, spitting jagged shards of crystal at her that she avoided by rolling to her left as they pierced smoking down into the snow.

She pushed off the ground, back on her feet as she began to close the distance. The juggernaut charged, too, lumbering toward her with massive stomps as it hurtled a clubbed fist, smashing down into the ground until a shockwave of crystals jutted from the earth toward her.

Vell hadn't seen that one in a while and jammed her foot into the ground to stop and tried to change direction, just a bit too slow as the spine of red lyrium cut across her right arm while she moved out of the way. She hissed as she pulled the arm back toward her body. Even the smallest cut made with that damn red lyrium burned like hell.

The juggernaut's other arm, long and sharp like a blade, stabbed at her as she hopped back out of the way, waiting for an opening to get inside. It followed, stabbing wildly at her, quickly despite its lumbering size. Its attacks continued pushing her back as she avoided each strike until she was getting shoved into the other Red Templars battling it out with Roggi's blades.

She dodged out of the way of the next step, then had to roll as she nearly caught a Templar sword in her hip. She could feel the breeze of the juggernaut's spike barely missing the back of her head as she stepped into a punch that shattered the lesser Red Templar knight in front of her into a heap.

When she turned back to the juggernaut, the giant mace-like appendage was already swinging up in the air, right toward her.

And then the monster kind of froze in place, gripped as a red light swirled over its body and the red color of the crystals began to fade, the light flowing like vapors down and behind it to where there was a man, holding a two-handed blade in one hand, the other thrust up into the air toward the Red Templar sapping it.

The juggernaut seemed fully paralyzed until the crystalline stones looked dull and cloudy.

"Hit it!" the warrior shouted.

Vell obliged, drawing her hand back and pushed the Veil forward.

When it hit, the now-dull crystal broke and shattered into pieces as the weakened stones and dead, fleshy parts spattered backward into the walls of the town as if the beast had been made out of sticks and glass and chunks of dry clay.

With the juggernaut out of the way, she could now see that the gates of the town had opened and the defenders within were spilling out into the field.

The warrior bent his arm back toward his body, the red lyrium energy still swirling up to his elbow like a swarm of bees. She watched as he slowly began to close his fingers, the energy sucking up into his palm until he closed his hand into a fist and the red light snuffed out.

He opened his hand and shook it out as he took a breath, nodding some affirmation to the brown-haired lady mage behind him at a question that Vell couldn't hear.

She approached, noticed he was wearing an Inquisition badge attached to the pauldron at his left shoulder as he lifted the two-hand blade and slide it into the scabbard across his back, and pointed a finger toward his left hand.

"How'd you do," she extended her fingers out and rotated her wrist like she was twisting a doorknob that wasn't there, "that thing?"

"It's a long story - about forty chapters long," he said, looking down at his left palm as he said it.

"How'd you do," he lifted his hand and thrust it forward like a strike, then fluttered his fingers like an explosion, " _that_ thing?"

Vell laughed. "Longer story. Still in progress."

The man laughed with her, even as he scanned the battlefield. "Looks like your men have this under control," he said as he slipped his long blade back into the scabbard across his back. "And I assume you must be Vell, of these 'Vellions' I keep hearing about."

"That's me," she said, pointing a finger toward her head. "The hair usually gives it away. The magic, too. But mostly the hair, I find. Also, the dwarf."

Just as many rumors seemed to spread about Roggi as anyone else wherever they went now. Then again, it wasn't every day that people saw a dwarf ride into their town on top of a bronto with a giant, golden throne being towed behind him in a wagon. He didn't exactly travel conspicuously.

"And you're Inquisition," Vell said.

"We've been _the_ Inquisition in these parts, waiting for the Trevelyan to show up," he said, then extended a hand. "Cain Wygard. Come on, the townsfolk will be happy to hear they're not going to die today."

* * *

Like most nights recently for Vell, this one ended with a several pots of bubbling, steaming food and barrels of ale being drained cup by cup.

What was left of the Inquisition in this part of the Emprise was thin.

There was Cain, an ex-Templar - he reassured her, convincingly, of the "ex" part - who had already been through one ordeal for the Inquisition with some kind of quest chasing down red lyrium cultists or something like that. The way he recounted the story was interesting, but it could have been told better, she thought.

With him was Anya, a mage from the Circle in Ferelden. As it turned out, she recognized Malcolm right away. They had both been held up in Kinloch Hold until the mages rebelled. While Malcolm had joined with Fiona and the rest of the rebels, Anya had taken off for the wilderness in hopes of assuming a new identity. It hadn't worked out that way, obviously, since she was tied up here with the rest of them.

When Vell asked her what side she was one, she claimed she wasn't on either side. Maybe, but she didn't stay in the Circle and she clearly wasn't leashed to Madam de Fer's hand like the rest of them, so that seemed all fine and good.

And then there was Chykk and his mabari, Snort, which he introduced in just that order. The dog growled when Jac tried to nudge it away with the butt of his staff, but immediately took to Malcolm. What was it about Fereldans and those damned dogs? Chykk had chimed in that he had been out on the Exalted Plains until he ran across Vivienne and her lapdog, who relieved him of duty from his position, a story which he told with a string of unkind words that made Vell instantly like him. He had been unceremoniously reassigned after that, but said he was happy to catch up with Cain. They must have had some kind of history together.

The small wing of soldiers Cain had brought to hold the Emprise had been slowly picked off in skirmish after skirmish with Red Templars. What was left was barely a dozen men. Wygard couldn't even get near the town of Sahrnia and forget about making it anywhere close to Suledin Keep up in the hills which the Inquisition would eventually want to retake.

That, and there were dragons that soared around the sky from time to time.

Yes, Cain stressed when apparently Vell had raised an eyebrow she wasn't fully aware she was raising, _dragons_ , plural.

Many of the towns had been raided and the out-of-season snow wasn't helping any of the survivors who were barely hanging on. If there was anything the Vellions could do here, it would only be to kill as many of the Red Templars they could find on their way anywhere else.

Cain insisted he was strong enough to defend the foothold they had dug in the area, but he had no illusions about pressing any farther into Red Templar territory without the Inquisitor and his companions.

Still, with a palisade wall around them and a bunch of Red Templars lying dead in the fields outside the small town, Roggi had determined it was reason enough to break out his ale casks again and drink until they fell over. Then again, a full moon was a reason to break out the casks, or finding another town, or seeing a tall tree. She was yet to find a reason for him not to break out his ale at the end of the day.

"There's something about tonight," Roggi said as he sat sideways across his throne pulled up next to the fire pit with Talon seated lightly on top of his lap, fingers playfully twisting through his beard. "Maybe it's that red lyrium shit, but there's an energy in the air."

"I feel it too, lover," Talon said as she bent down to nibble his ear.

Roggi dug a hand down into one of his pockets, fiddling around until he pulled out a small black leather pouch and hoisted it into the air, all the while Talon worked up and down the side of his neck. "This. This is what we need tonight."

He worked the strings on the purse with his fat fingers until he was able to dip into them, pulling out a chunk of dry, brown, gnarled mushroom between his index and middle finger, then stuffed it into his mouth. Talon chuckled softly as Roggi pulled out another piece and presented it to her, her lips slowly taking it out of his fingers like a cat gingerly stealing a snack, with a big smile as she began to chew and swallow.

"My king is being very, very naughty tonight," she commented after swallowing as she walked to fingers down his chest.

"I think I earned it," he said, sloppily kissing her before turning back to the others. "Anyone else?"

"What is it?" Chykk asked. The dog, who was chewing some kind of large born that had plenty of deep ruts in it from the dog's powerful teeth and jaws, looked up too as his master spoke.

Roggi laughed, smiling, showing the glimmer of that golden tooth in his mouth. "Let's just say, either you'll start puking up fire until you wish you were dead or it will take you for a ride like you've never been on before. That is, if you're man enough to handle it."

Chykk smirked at the prospect of the challenge and waved it over until the dwarf extended the pouch and the Chasind man dug in, taking out two pieces, one that he popped into his own mouth and one that he turned over to the dog.

"You sure that's a good idea?" Anya asked as Snort the dog swallowed the mushroom piece without even chewing it.

"Snort's got more balls than the dwarf."

"Maybe, but I don't have to lick my own stones to get off," Roggi said, leveling a challenging glare at the dog, who met his stare and bared his teeth a little as if he fully understood what was said about him.

"How about you Cheese? Might lighten you up?" Roggi said as he offered the pouch to Jac, who waved it off. "Red?"

"Ummm…"

"Come on, don't be a poof like your boyfriend there. This shit gets my woman off like nothing else. Can't control what she might do," he suggested with a raised eyebrow.

Malcolm looked over to Talon, who was running the tip of her tongue up the length of her index finger. He dug his hand into the bag so fast he might have knocked it out of Roggi's hand.

"You two?" he asked to Cain and Anya.

"No, thank you," the mage said.

Cain waved it off too. "I've had enough lyrium in my day."

"Rainbows? Flute?"

Vell dipped her hand into the bag, pulling out a small piece. Why not? Merin shook his head, both at still being called Flute and also because he didn't want any.

"Come on, Flute," Roggi said, pushing the bag forward again. "This stuff will make you want to go over there and gob Cheese for an hour or two, trust me."

"For the last time, Roggi, I'm not into that," Merin protested at the suggestion once again of him engaging in a little male on male contact.

Jac lifted a single finger and interjected, "Yes, for the record, neither am I."

"Shut up, Cheese," Roggi said without turning his head. "Come on, Flute. You don't have to gob any cock tonight if you don't want to, I guess. But you still gotta have it."

"Why'd you let them off so easy?" Merin asked, glancing around and the others who had declined.

"Because they don't like to get down on their knees and get cocked from behind," Roggi said, lifting up his head to look at Anya. "Yeah, she's definitely an on-top type, I'd wager."

Anya looked concerned at Cain, who shrugged and tried to hide a smile behind his cup as he put it to his mouth.

"Thank you?" she said back to the dwarf.

"You're welcome, dear," he said. "But you know, if you want to try something new…"

Anya smiled politely but quickly answered, "No, thank you."

"Very well," Roggi said, surrendering to her preference, then turned back. "Flute. Come on, Flute."

Vell gave Merin a light shove. "It'll be fun," she said, breaking a corner off the piece of mushroom she had taken and offered it to him. "I'll hold your hair if you start throwing up."

That got some laughs around their fire as Merin grabbed the piece out of Vell's fingers and popped it into his mouth, resigned to peer pressure.

"I don't feel anything," Malcolm said.

"Ancestors' cocks, come on, give it a few minutes, boy," Roggi said as he stuffed the pouch back into his pocket. "I hope that's not a sign of how fast you're going to pop off."

They sat around in quiet for a moment, glancing back and forth to one another trying to figure out what might happen and when. That was, except for Talon, who was continuing to crawl all over Roggi, and Roggi, who was continuing to grab whatever he could reach with his stubby hands on Talon, with little regard for their company.

"You were incredible today, my king," Talon said in the moments when she pulled her tongue out of Roggi's mouth. "So strong."

Her right hand dove into Roggi's pants as she bit his bottom lip and pulled on it, groaning as she seemed to slide up and down on his body. "My strong king." Her arm pushed a little deeper into his pants. "I want your ass tonight, my king."

Roggi laughed at that. "Maybe I was thinking I wanted yours, first."

"Maker's shit," Malcolm said, interrupting, as he began to wave his hand in front of his face, eyes staring wildly at it. "It's… fuck."

Back on the throne, Roggi was started to tug at tied cords holding Talon's shirt in place as she more roughly began to jerk her arm up and down, still tucked deeply into his pants.

Cain glanced back and forth, then glanced at Anya who looked uncomfortable. "Ummm, can you maybe go somewhere more… private?"

Roggi stopped glanced around, then helped Talon pull her forearm out from his pants. "Come on, lover, we're making them uncomfortable."

She slid off the throne, standing up and helping Roggi up, even as she swayed back and forth, obviously feeling something that no one else was feeling right now. Except maybe Malcolm.

"My king, can we..." she asked, trailing off.

"If you like," he said with a shrug as he began to lead her away.

As they began to walk away, Talon turned halfway back, pointing to both Malcolm and Chykk and motioning them to follow with the curl of a single finger. They looked at each other for a second, both with smiles.

Malcolm tried to hop up, stumbled, fell back down to the ground. Chykk, who was much more steady, extended a hand down and helped him up and helped him balance.

"Come on, kid," he said as he wrapped Malcolm's arm around his shoulder. "Pace yourself."

They walked off into the dark, following whether the dwarf and his elf companions were headed.

"Is this… normal?" Anya asked as she watched them go.

"This is, somewhat new?" Vell said. This specific thing hadn't happened before. Talon crawled all over Roggi just about every night and it wasn't uncommon for them to not seem to be aware or care who was around them. So, no, it wasn't surprising, Vell guessed.

"We missed out," Cain said to her. "We didn't meet anyone half as interesting on our adventure."

"Thankfully," Anya said as she sipped at her ale. Cain drank too, although he had a slight thousand-yard stare as he did.

The ex-Templar lowered his cup back down toward his lap and looked out at the other dots of red where other groups of Roggi's men were sitting around campfires. There was plenty of noise coming from a few of them, but nothing they could make out from here.

Cain then looked back at the now-empty golden throne, then over to Vell. "So why does the dwarf play along pretending you're the one in charge?"

Vell glanced up from where she was looking at the fire. Were the flames licking up always that wavy or was she seeing things? "The Vellions are mine," she lied. "Roggi's colorful, but he works for me."

Cain shook his head. "You're no leader."

Vell didn't know whether to feel offended or interested to figure out what he saw. Everyone around these parts seemed to have heard about the Vellions. Townsfolk from places they had never been recognized her when she came in. She walked at the front of the column and made the biggest waves when they went to bust up Red Templars or demons or whatever else. She was the one who told everyone to distribute the food to the hungry peasants and she was the one who told the poor people to keep their coins.

Sure, Roggi sat on a giant golden throne when they sat around eating and drinking and celebrating another day of surviving at night, but otherwise, he completely faded into the background during the day.

She still wasn't exactly sure _why_ , but he did.

"And how do you know that?"

Cain lifted his cup up just before his mouth. "Because I'm no leader, either. I know what it looks like."

"Hey, Vell is-" Merin started to say to try to white-knight his way into protecting her, but she quieted him as she put her hand across his chest. Was he warm? And why were her fingers tingling?

"What do you mean?" she asked.

Cain wiped his mouth as he lowered his cup. "I think it's just how this Inquisition thing works. They kind of just throw you out here and see what happens," he said. "That, and you're a mage. And an elf. You grew up in the Circle somewhere in Orlais, probably getting spit on by Templars your whole life. You were never given a chance."

He pointed over to Jac. "Your companion here, he might have had a chance. Were you on the path to becoming an Enchanter?"

Jac nodded. "Two, maybe three years out."

"How about you?" Cain asked Merin.

"Never came up in conversation once," the elf said. "Not even in Hasmal, which is more liberal than most."

Cain shook his head. "And that's part of the reason I had to leave all that behind. It's a damn mess, all of it. The Chantry. The Circles. Hell, even this Inquisition."

Vell scooted back away from the fire a little bit. Was it burning hotter? She could feel herself sweating. If she pulled all of her clothes off, she could probably roll around in the snow to cool off. She blinked, feeling like it took a lot longer than usual for her eyes to reopen.

"What's your point?" Vell said, her tongue feeling a little wet in her mouth.

Cain laughed. "Don't really know. I guess I don't want to see someone else get chewed up like I was, following other people's orders all the time."

"You're here," Vell said. "Aren't you still doing that?"

"Maybe," Cain admitted with a shrug. "But I'm here on my terms. I'm doing this because _I_ think it's the right thing to do right now. I-"

The light from the fire was getting brighter and brighter, until the red, orange, yellow and white colors continued to bleed off the piles of smoking wood and washed over Cain and Anya. Everything got real quiet as the colors bled on top of each other, swirling around her.

Everything felt so hot now as she stood up, stepping back away from the fire, feeling the cold from the snow that crunched underfoot creeping up her legs like icy tentacles that tingled every nerve. She shrugged her jacket off her shoulders, feeling it whoosh past her as the sleeves fell off her arms.

She spun around in a circle, looking up at the sky and the stars that seemed to dance back and forth, bouncing across the sky. They seemed to droop out of the black, like dots of light descending on fine little threads. She reached up to try to pluck one out of the darkness, standing up on her toes to stretch up and up and up toward the jewels just out of reach.

She dropped back onto her heels, feeling that rush of cool up the back of her legs again. She kicked off her boots, dipping her feet into the freezing cold snow and moaning as the rush of cold sensation wrapped around her feet like their own special kind of socks. She wiggled her toes, giggling as the snow brushed in the spots between each one of them.

"Vell?"

The hazy figure in front of her kind of looked like Merin, maybe, if he was a candle made of pastels that was half melted. She felt something on both of her shoulders, a heavy heat, that caused her to pull back away from it, letting herself fall backward into the snow.

It caught her like a soft mattress, taking her breath away as her bare skin touched with ice. She rolled left and right, embracing herself in the cold.

"Vell? Vell are you all right?"

The words sounded like a distant echo, distorted and low and silly, so silly she giggled as she grabbed the bottom of her shirt and pulled it over her head, squirming as each exposed inch was touched by the electric cold of the snow.

That pastel blob of gooeyness hovered over her again, with more of those goofy, low rumblings almost sounding like musical, muffled gas tooted into pillows. She laughed again, kicking her legs out of her pants until she straddled the snow between her legs, feeling it pressed tingling against her pubic bone.

She trembled, embraced, safe, just like in Angelo's bunk back in White Spire. Like she was tangled in his sheets as the sun began to come through the narrow slits of the tower when she overslept, fighting the urge to slip back into sleep against knowing she had to get up and rush back to her own bed before the Templars came around.

Angelo used to run his fingers across the back of her neck and and kiss her hair before giving her a gentle, steady nudge with his knee until he pushed her out from under the covers.

She could feel his touch on her upper arm now, soft, caring.

"Vell?" His voice sounded as clear as she ever remembered, the scent of cinnamon filling her nose.

She reached up, clasping the hand rested upon her upper arm as she nuzzled deeper into the bed, curling her legs up. She smiled, sighing as she adjusted her head on the soft pillow.

"Just a little longer," she said. "Don't make me go yet. Stay with me."

There was a slight hesitation, she could feel the hand lift slightly off her arm. There was quiet chatter somewhere else in the dormitory from someone else who was awake. Maybe they were some other couple, sneaking some illicit time together before the Templars came through to check the beds.

"Come on Angelo," she said, tapping his fingers again. "Lay down."

A moment of quiet. The bed felt so comfortable.

"If that's what you want, I'll stay," he said.

Vell smiled. She could hear the sheet on the bed crinkle as Angelo laid back down next to her. A moment later, his strong arm draped over her hip, cradling her into his body. She pushed back, snuggling into the contour of his body.

"I'll take care of you tonight, Vell," Angelo whispered.

She smiled again, nuzzled up against him.

"I know."


	46. Chapter 46

**Forty-six**

They scurried around the house like rats, grabbing whatever they could get their greedy hands on.

His instructions had been succinct.

All of the books were to be carefully packed into chests first, to be taken safely to the Circle in Montsimmard.

Everything else, they could take as much as they fit into their wagon, saddle bags, sacks and filthy mitts. Everything, except for anything within the master bedroom. That room was strictly off-limits.

They didn't seem to mind as they ran around the manor pillaging the late Marquis Brevere's pleasure house. They were animals, all of them, driven by little more than base greed as they ran back and forth with armfuls of silver flatware, pulled paintings from the wall, eyed vases and statues trying to figure out with their cretin brains whether it was worth the space in their rapidly filling carts.

Templars would have completed the task with solemn efficiency. Inquisition soldiers would no doubt have performed admirably as well. Even a mercenary group led by an honorable chevalier would have satisfactorily completed the job.

This lot was none of those. These were smugglers from Ghislain, seasoned criminals adept at running shipments, undetected, between Orlais, Nevarra and Tevinter. They were despicable men, roaches. But even roaches had their place and use in the Empire.

Despite Antone's testament asking him to dispose of the house, even the most optimistic interpretation gave him little to no actual rights to it. As a mage, he could hold no claim to any property outside of the Circle. Him even being here was likely to be considered trespass and removal of any of the items was paramount to theft. So best to use those who were already damned to Val Royeaux's prisons if they were ever caught.

He wasn't paying them anything directly. If the Orlesian army happened to stop them on the road somewhere between here and Montsimmard, they fit the picture of burglars more than hired hands. Besides, he hadn't given them his name, nor he taken theirs. Under torture, at best they would be able to give a physical description.

No doubt the authorities would raise an eyebrow at the chests of books tucked underneath gold and silver and jewels. In time, they might connect him to Brevere, but they would have no proof beyond the testimony of smugglers that he had ordered them to remove the books to the Circle Tower. The evidence was circumstantial, at best.

Orlais was a cruel place, but the law still held weight.

"You have one hour," Taesas announced from the main foyer, his voice echoing through the large, empty house. "And then I want you gone."

That resulted in a renewed sense of urgency as men ran through the house, carrying out whatever they could and arguing over what was worth hauling away.

Taesas emptied his third bottle of wine for the afternoon, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he threw the empty bottle at one of the smugglers running with an armful of silver pitchers, missing him, as the green glass bottle shattered against the back wall.

The house staff - about a dozen who were living in the servants quarters out back and keeping the house in Brevere's absence - he had broken the news of Antone's death to them. They all expressed shock and dismay, all of it, no doubt, feigned.

He asked them where Brevere kept his gold in the house. The head servant led him to a triple-locked chest in the library. Taesas shook his head as the cheap locks froze under the tendrils of ice spreading from his fingertips until the metal buckled and cracked and the lid creaked open.

He left it to the head servant to distribute it to the others and dismissed them all. If they wished to serve the Inquisition in some way, they could find soldiers in Ghislain. If not, they could take their coins and go wherever they chose.

The head servant - an older elf - thanked him. Taesas told him to begone and shooed him away with the back of his hand.

They were no different than the smugglers, really. They would cling to their bits of gold, coveting it until they squandered it all away and ended up back in the filthy gutter from where they first crawled out of. They would think back on their modest fortune and how they had wasted it, the memory of the coins driving them mad until they gave into savagery to try to reclaim their place as king atop the manure pile they wished to rule.

All of them, they were nothing and would never be more than nothing. Their continued struggle was nothing but delusion. They would labor and toil and die and never become more than refuse.

And yet, the Empire was built upon their backs and their delusions in such a delicate balance that if the tripe ever gained enough intelligence to realize how pathetically hopeless their station was, they would revolt.

Letting these peons believe, even for a day, that they might someday be more than they were now, letting them buy into the fantasy, was worth the few baubles they could claw away from a man as intelligent and powerful and _great_ as Antone had been.

If he were here, he might laugh at the notion of watching servants and commoners swarming around his manor with eyes filled of false hope.

Where was that bottle? Taesas could have sworn he left the half-empty bottle of bourbon in the hall, but now couldn't find it. He should have demanded the dogs leave the liquor untouched too. He swore as he shuffled down the hall, looking at the now-bare walls where the scavengers had taken down the art, leaving light-colored squares on the wall where portraits and landscapes had hung for years shielding the paint from dust and dirt and sunlight.

There used to be a risque portrait of Empress Celene in that spot just to the right of the door to the trophy room. She was wearing a purple dress that the artist had chosen to let fall off her shoulders and halfway down her back, the Empress' nubile breasts covered in her palms, glancing over her shoulder with her icy eyes shining from the recesses of her mask, her lips pursed in a moment of temporary surprise. To display such a painting in any home the Empress might ever visit would have been suicide. To paint such a piece had been. The artist had been arrested, imprisoned and later found to have "hanged himself" in his own cell.

Now, it was gone. The smugglers would sell it to a fence, who would sell it to some black market art dealer, who would eventually find a wealthy buyer willing to burden the risk, or, more likely, an upstart noble willing to chance taking a swipe at the Empress.

Taesas held the banister as he slowly began to ascend the back staircase to the second floor, glancing out the large west-facing windows on the rear of the house. The sky was beginning to grow orange as the sun descended toward the horizon, casting long black shadows inside.

The plush red carpet underfoot on each step of the stairs was impeccably clean, the golden-colored wood on either side completely free of dust, no doubt having been swept every day even though the house was rarely occupied.

The hallway was dim as he walked slowly down the corridor, surveying the devastation that had taken place. One of the smugglers was at the far end of the hall, dragging another large painting toward the stairs, hurrying himself as he caught Taesas's glare. The frame thumped loudly as it hit each stair. No doubt the golden frame would be bent, scratched, or otherwise damaged. That was if he didn't destroy the canvas inside of through such a rough descension.

Taesas came to the door of the master bedroom, still closed. He tested the knob, finding it still locked. He pressed his finger to the keyhole until the metal creaked at the spreading cold through its mechanisms and then split, allowing the door to open with a quiet pop.

He shut the door behind him after entering, although it softly banged shut unable to latch anymore. The fireplace was empty. The heavy purple curtains were drawn open, allowing the dusken sun in. The doors on the wardrobe at the back of the room were closed. The covers atop the four-poster bed were perfectly smoothed on the bed, thick and heavy and embroidered with intricate golden embroidery. The pillows were fluffed, waiting for a tired head.

He grabbed the nearest leg of the large bed and began to pull, ignoring the horrible groaning noise the entire bed made as its wooden feet dragged across the marble floor tiles. After having pulled it a few feet away from the wall, he looked behind it to spot one tile that was clearly not cemented down to the floor as the others had been. He lifted it, revealing the small metal box inside, just as promised in Brevere's letter.

What could the Marquis possibly have hidden here that would be as important or as useful as suggested?

 _What is inside will help protect you from the one who could do you most harm._

Taesas couldn't even fathom what that might mean. The notion made him feel grossly inadequate, because he couldn't even say with certainty who might be the person who could do him most harm. He had made enemies in his time, plenty of them, but there were none he regarded as an existential threat. He had considered and prepared against all of them, none of them requiring much beyond recognition of their next likely steps in the Game.

He pulled the box out of the hole and reached into his pocket, producing the small iron key. He could break this lock just as easily as the others, but he had the key, so why not use it? With a turn, the lock popped up with a small click, allowing the top of the box to lift.

He sat down on the bed, laughing to himself as he looked at the contents within.

It - Brevere's secret weapon - took up most of the box. It sat there, sparkling, like the prize that it was.

On top of it, a folded piece of paper, with notes scrawled down in perfectly tight and fanciful script.

Next to that, a second piece of paper, a small scrap with a note written in Antone's hand. " _You're welcome"_ was all it said.

Taesas closed the box, sitting it next to him on the bed. He shook his head. Snickered. Laughed aloud. Glanced at the box, then laughed a little louder.

How had Brevere come across such a thing? It was nearly inconceivable. It was utter nonsense, utter lunacy for him to have come across such a thing. And yet, it was everything he had promised.

And now, he was gone.

Taesas laughed again. Took the box. Stood up.

Where had he left that bottle?

* * *

His shoulders bumped against the empty bottles bobbing at the surface of the water as he skimmed backward through the water. It had to have been chill, but he couldn't tell as the water rushed along his naked flesh. The stars all seemed to blur together.

The heavens spun each time he looked up at them, each time he stopped as he bumped into a wall he didn't realize was behind him. He fumbled around in the darkness, tapped his hands along the edges of the wall, feeling for where the next bottle was and whether it had anything in it.

He should have stopped when he vomited on the rug in the front hall. Instead, he raided the kitchen for the bread and cheese the servants had left behind. The meat he had haphazardly skewered and stuck over the fire had charred black and hard on one side when he forgot to turn it. He ate around it, occasionally getting the dry, putrid taste of charcoal in his mouth.

The food did little good. As he stumbled out of the dining room, bumping into a bust next to the door the scavengers hadn't stolen and knocking it to the ground, breaking Emperor Who Gives A Fuck's head in three pieces, he vomited most of the food onto the tile in the foyer even as he spilled half a bottle of the Jader red into the growing chunky pile.

He had stumbled outside when the feeling of cool air rushing through one of the windows he had broken throwing a bottle through it brushed his sweaty face as he shambled through the dark and empty manor Brevere had left to him. He cursed the rose bush as a thorn snagged the sleeve of his robe as he passed before remembering the large pool Brevere had put in.

Taesas shed his robe, nearly falling over as he lifted his legs out of it while trying to maintain his hold on the neck of the wine bottle, until he slipped into the cool water.

He couldn't remember if it had been hours or just a few minutes since he got in. The empty, bobbing bottles in the water suggested that he had been here for a while, enough to make a few trips back in the house to replenish his drink. It had to have been a while. The moon was now nearly at its peak in the sky and his skin was wrinkled. His entire body shivered as the cold finally overwhelmed the shell of alcohol he wore heavy around him like coat.

What else was there left to do now?

Here he was, the lord of this doomed manor.

A lavish house, stripped of its riches and prestige, devoid of its servants, bereft of its master, pilfered and pillaged, dark and empty and lonely. Taesas ruled this place now, this crown of nothingness set atop a hill overlooking the rich vineyards of northern Orlais.

He lifted himself out of the water, naked, shivering, and retrieved his robe.

* * *

Taesas dragged his hand across the wall with each lumbering, uneasy step, the fire trailing off his fingertips as he went.

He clenched onto the thick curtains as he passed another window, waiting until the fabric began to smolder in his palm and the fire started to lick up toward the ceiling. He could feel the heat at his back, smell the smoke filling the house as the east wing burned behind him.

He continued forward, looking left as he lifted his left hand and spewed a cone of fire at the far wall, orange and red tongues of flame crackling as they devoured the oils in the paints of a portrait left hanging in its ornate wooden frame.

He moved toward the main entrance as smoke billowed overhead up into the large foyer where it swirled around the frescoed dome over the front door, darkening the paintings he couldn't see in the midnight gloom anyway. He could see the smoke venting out of cracks and crevices as it ran rampant behind the walls, consuming everything within.

Taesas coughed as he brushed a bit of ash out of his hair as he stepped outside in the cold evening air again. He continued around the side, bathing the west wing of the house in wave after wave of fire until he saw the paint begin to melt and darken and could see the wood structure within begin to glow a vibrant orange as flame swirled around it.

He opened himself deeper to the Fade, letting the power swell inside him as he covered the house in more and more fire. Even as the wall began to buckle and crumble under the intensity and heat, he pour more upon it, drawer deeper and deeper into himself to pull on the wild flame he so rarely called upon.

This is what Brevere had asked of him. This is what Antone had wanted. No one would ever enjoy the pleasure of this place again, because he would leave nothing but cinders behind.

Someone might see the smoke come morning and might travel to see what was burning. They would see the smoldering remains of the house, they would see the land charred black and scarred. They would see a wound left in Orlais, deep and dark and aching where foolish minds had plunged their knife and carved out the heart of the Empire's north.

Amid the crackling of fire and the clamor of walls and ceilings falling, there was another noise amid the chaos. It was a low rumbling at first, growing louder and clearer as it continued. It roared, bellowing above even the din of the inferno scorching the hilltop.

It was laughter, loud and deep. Taesas laughed as he watched the wave of fire extend and swirl out of his palms, at the rush of heat and fury that seemed to pour out from his stomach, up through his lungs, past his racing heart and down the length of his arms like magma coursing down the mountainside until it exploded from the scarred flats of his hands.

The Enchanters warned the mages never to touch their power so deeply, so rawly. Even in the most dire circumstances, a mage should maintain control of their power, to keep a careful chain around it so that nothing on the other side might grasp it and take control.

They taught weakness, passivity, submission, subjugation, slavery. They taught meekness and caution and fear of their power. The Chantry's chains were wrapped so tightly around the neck of the Circle that even the mages who could touch the limitless glory granted to them by the Maker cowered in fear at their own power.

Bound by arbitrary rules, of their own self-created fear, they were held in check, prevented from rising to the greatness they deserved.

How long ago had Taesas discovered that truth?

How long ago had he decided to not be controlled bit, to circumvent it, to undermine it?

How long ago had he come into his own greatness?

And as the flames continued to grow thicker and hotter, as the power of the Fade coursed through his body and devoured the sticks and stones and gold that had built this great monument of Orlais' wealth and prestige, he laughed.

With Brevere's last gift tucked safely in his pack, as he brought the house to the ground in a smoldering, glowing, smoking pile of ash, he laughed.

He laughed and laughed loudly.


	47. Chapter 47

**Forty-seven**

She shivered and the current of cold that shot up her spine jolted her awake.

As she jerked, her elbow connected with something behind her. Something that moved. Something that groaned and swore.

"Right in my ribs," Merin complained.

That caused her to jerk again as she rolled slightly to the side and shoved him.

"What the fuck are you doing?" she shouted as the blanket slipped down over her shoulders. She caught it as it began to fall down her chest, at which point she realized she wasn't wearing a shirt. She glanced under the covers and realized that wasn't all that was missing.

"Where are my pants?" she asked with some hostility as she pulled the blanket back up and scrunched it in her palm at her neck.

Merin rolled on his side, smartly away from her, as he cradled his chest. "Just hold on second, let me explain."

"Merin," she growled as her eyes narrowed. "Where, are, my, _clothes?"_

"Right there," he said as he pointed to the other side of her. Her pants, shirt and jacket were sitting in neatly folded squares. Her boots were standing in the snow next to the pile. "I, well, last night, I..."

"You what?" she asked, still sternly, as she groped for her clothes to her right side without taking her eyes off of Merin.

"The mushrooms," he sputtered out, barfing it out before he said anything else. That clicked something in her head. She had eaten Roggi's mushrooms while they were around the fire. Trying to remember it now, she couldn't exactly recall anything that happened after that. "You ate those mushrooms, then you walked over here and started stripping everything off, and, and…"

"And what?" she demanded.

"And then you kind of just, laid down in the snow and fell asleep. I brought a blanket over and wrapped you up and tried to get you off the snow," he rambled off quickly. "Then I huddled up next to you. For warmth. So you didn't freeze to death out here."

He was obviously uncomfortable and flustered enough to make it sound like he was telling the truth, Vell decided as she grabbed her shirt first and slipped it over her head and over her bandeau, which was thankfully still on, before slipping her legs into her pants under the blanket.

"It was all aboveboard, honest. There was a layer of blanket between us at all times. And look, I'm wearing all my clothes." He brushed his hands up and down his front to show off that, yes, in fact he was wearing clothes. "You can ask the others. They'll tell you."

"Forget it," Vell said as she slipped her arms back into her jacket before shrugging the blanket off of her. She _was_ fucking cold, that was for sure. The fire they were sitting in front of last night had burned down but was still crackling a little as people began to stir out of sleep at the slivers of first sunlight and her sudden shouting. "I believe you."

Merin sighed in relief, but still didn't move closer, just in case.

"Do you apologize like that to every woman you wake up next to?" Vell teased with a grin. Her head felt like some dick Templar had punched her in the back of the skull with a mailed fist. She glanced around, but didn't see see Roggi, or Talon, or Malcolm, for that matter.

Merin chuckled, uncomfortably, and sighed again. "Just the ones who can punch my head off my shoulders."

"Fuck," she said as she rubbed her temples. "Don't let me eat anything Roggi offers me ever again."

"I tried to be the voice of reason," he reminded her. He had, she remembered that now, too.

"You're telling me," she said as she smacked her lips. They were dry and chapped from the cold and from, she assumed, breathing out of her mouth all night. She moved her shoulders, feeling the fabric of her shirt against her skin again.

A sudden wave of dread washed over her. If she had been nearly naked all night, then Merin must have seen. How couldn't he have seen? Well, it was dark. If he had seen, why hadn't he said anything? He couldn't see something like _that_ and not say something, right? Why wasn't he saying anything?

"Hey Merin, did you…" she looked over at him and could feel her shoulders shrinking in as she huddled down in on herself.

"I didn't, and wouldn't," he said, quietly and with what sounded like honest sincerity.

That made her feel slightly better about the whole situation, even if it wasn't what she was starting to ask about.

"I appreciate it."

"Sure," he said.

As the others woke up, their group began to congregate back around the fire. The Templar - ex-Templar, she reminded herself - was already awake and fixing a pot over the fire. His mage companion looked like she was still asleep on her bedroll. Apparently they had slept in the camp instead of returning to the town and what she assumed would be beds more comfortable than the ground?

"We'll have some porridge here in a bit," Cain said to her and Merin as they approached. "Probably be bland as hell, but better get something in your stomach after last night."

Vell groaned, feeling almost embarrassed about it. Sure, she had gotten stupid drunk and blacked out before at Haven and at Skyhold, but that was different. She did that on purpose and had a hell of a lot of fun with everyone else doing so. This, whatever had happened, felt different.

"Don't worry about it," Cain said, obviously noticing some change in her expression that she wasn't aware she was making. "If you would have heard the noises coming from wherever the dwarf had gotten off to…" he paused and cringed for effect, "that's going to haunt me for years. And I stood through a few Harrowings that went horribly awry."

As if summoned, Roggi and Talon emerged through the snow, the dwarf stretching his stubby arms over his head as he groaned. He had red, raw scratch marks down both sides of his neck that weren't from the battle earlier in the day. Talon sauntered behind him, looking well-rested and content. Her clothes were ripped and had some very roughly sewn stitches in them to hold it all together.

Vell didn't have to do much guessing to figure out what had transpired.

Roggi plopped down next to the fire and held his hands out to warm then, then spit out of the corner of his mouth into the fire. He closed one eye in a slight grimace. "You sure did a number on my ass," he commented to Talon, who only smiled slyly in response as she sat down behind him, wrapping her legs around either side of him.

And, there was that. Vell suddenly felt a churning in her stomach and wasn't sure whether it was from the mushrooms or from the flash of images that crossed her mind involving Roggi, Talon and Roggi's ass.

Malcolm shuffled up - was he limping slightly? - and circled around to the other side of the fire away from Roggi and Talon, not looking up from his feet the entire time. As he sat, gingerly, he kept his eyes down looking wholeheartedly ashamed.

"Morning, Malcolm," Vell said.

He didn't look up. "Mmhmm."

"So what happened last night buddy?" she asked again holding in a laugh. "Did you have fun?"

Malcolm ran a hand through his curly red beard then crossed his arms over his chest and didn't answer. He turned his head slightly to the side to avoid making any eye contact.

"Awww, my strong Fereldan hound," Talon cooed. "I had very much fun."

His face got nearly as red as his beard, but Malcolm still didn't look up.

"Give the kid credit. He was very…" Roggi paused as he looked for the right word. "Open-minded."

Merin and Vell snickered, which was enough to get Malcolm to whirl and stand up and walk away from them. Roggi laughed as he dug into one of his pockets, pulling out a flask that he tipped deeply to his lips then passed off the Talon with a belch.

Malcolm scurried, ignoring Jac as he approached the campfire. The Orlesian watched as he took a seat, pointing over his shoulder. "What's wrong with him," he said as he glanced at Roggi. "Or dare I ask?"

"I warned him you were too much for him," Roggi said to his elven lover.. Talon could only smile with her eyes as she was mid-gulp of whatever Roggi had in his flask.

"So what about you, Flute?" Roggi asked. "Did Rainbows here hump you unconscious last night?"

"What? No!" Merin said.

"Come _on,_ Flute! Those mushrooms aren't easy to get to just waste like that!" Roggi started as it quickly trailed into another back-and-forth between the two of questioning Merin's adamant protestations of his sexuality that made Vell feel like another normal, average day was unfolding for all of them.

It felt good.

* * *

The wagons were packed, Roggi's men were all awake, albeit many of them hung over, and everyone was ready to move on.

Vell would be happy to be out of the cold again. They were heading north, making sure to stay well clear of Val Royeaux in the process, and as far as she was aware there was no snow up there. She still couldn't seem to shake the chill out of her after the night of sleeping on snow.

The other Inquisition soldiers were moving on too. Word was Inquisitor Trevelyan was on his way and would be arriving in a day or two. Everyone agreed it was probably for the best that the Inquisitor didn't cross paths with their colorful band, regardless of the good she felt like they were doing. Roggi and his blades probably weren't the spitting image of what the Inquisition wanted to be. Then again, neither was she.

She had gone up the hill to the edge of one of the cliffs, where she could see out for miles to the north in the clear blue and white of the snow-covered Emprise. There were tall, dark trees dotting the landscape and a narrow road that twisted out of the area. No villages, no smoke rising from any homesteads that she could see. It would be a long, boring walk today in an effort to get somewhere, anywhere by tomorrow.

Vell turned upon hearing the crunching of snow behind her, expecting to see Merin. Instead, it was the mage, the Templar - ex-Templar's - companion. Her thick Fereldan robe was covered by another heavy coat she was wearing over it, her staff tucked away at her back as she approached.

Vell didn't particularly care for her. She had been kind of quiet and she often had this kind of disapproving look in her eye whenever she glanced over at Roggi and Talon, or when they had been sharing stories about how many heads they had smashed in so far or how drunk they had got the night or two before or how much gold they were hoping to walk away with once all this Inquisition business was all said and done.

Vell was familiar with her type. She had met her type in White Spire before. She was the kind of person who just fell somewhere in the in-between in the Circle, somewhere between people like Vell who were ready to burn the entire world down and those who always walked around with a Templar dick in their mouth. She was the type who just kind of kept quiet and existed from day to day, resigned to the fate that the Chantry had cast upon them.

Once, when she was young, Vell had envied their ability to just accept their existence in the Circle. It was a skill she could never learn, an attitude she found herself wholly unable to adopt.

Vell turned back to the valley, crossing her arms and squeezing them tight over her chest in a continuing futile effort to squeeze the chill out of her body. It wasn't as freezing as Haven, but, then again, what was?

Anya stepped up next to her on the right side without invitation and stood quietly for a moment as she took in the sight of the valley before her, too. It might have been nice if Vell just stood there, silently, until Anya got uncomfortable and left, but, of course, that wasn't to be.

"Those scars," Anya said quietly without taking her gaze away from the landscape. "Who did that to you?"

Vell hadn't been so naive to think that no one had noticed last night, when she, apparently, decided to strip and roll around in the snow when she was off her face on Roggi's mushrooms. Merin, at least, hadn't said anything, but there was no way that he couldn't have seen, regardless of how dark the night was. She had hoped that maybe he was the only one who had seen, but it appeared luck wasn't on her side.

"Templars," Vell said as she brushed her fingers across the earrings in her left ear, taking a moment to linger on the seventh she had added after Adamant. She left it at that.

Anya stayed quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry. That's terrible."

"I don't need your pity." Vell hoped that would chase her off.

It didn't, although Anya didn't give a response to that. Her hazel eyes bounced back and forth as she looked over the land stretched out before them. It was almost as if she had never looked at it before. Or maybe, if she had looked at it too much, so much so that she was searching for something in the distance.

"When I got out of the Circle, I pictured some place like this. Somewhere that was nowhere. Somewhere I could go and disappear and be forgotten. Somewhere where the only person would remember anything about me was me," Anya said.

Vell rolled her eyes.

Anya had seen that criss-crossed mess of scars on her back and she had judged her instantly. She was some poor abused thing, fragile and broken and haunted. She was hiding, or running, or trying to pretend she wasn't screwed up by everything that had happened. She put on a tough face to hide that she was one strong breeze from falling to pieces.

"You're in the middle of a war," Vell said, more of an accusation than a statement.

"I am," Anya said with a sigh. "But this isn't what I want."

Why not, Vell thought. Aside from the snow and the cold and the demons and the Red Templars, this wasn't so bad. There were places to go, things to see, people to meet. In the Circle, all there had been was the Circle. There were the same corridors, the same rooms, the same stairs, the same people. The only new people who ever came in were children, the little ones rounded up by the Templars who came in shaking and scared and too young to realize they were going to be stuck there _forever._

There was only one way out of the White Spire, even if there were a lot of ways to make that exit - bed sheets wrapped around the neck, flying out a window on the upper level or with a pillow smothering the face.

Here, now, Vell hadn't spent more than a day or two in the same place. If they didn't like a particular area, they could load the wagons and roll them to the next place down the road.

"What do you want, then?" Vell asked, more so to fill the silence that was settling on them again than out of actually caring.

"It's kind of stupid," Anya admitted even before she said anything that sounded stupid. "But I think it'd be nice to have a perfectly ordinary and boring life. Have a home. Maybe have a family. Just, live. Day to day."

That was stupid, Vell thought. Well, not so much stupid as, what was the word she was looking for? Selfish? No. Spoiled, maybe? No.

 _Privileged_.

That was the one.

She and her Templar - ex-Templar - could go to some city somewhere. He could get a job with the city watch. She could go work in the market or something. They could have two little human children. They could all live together in their little house with the two windows and the red-painted door and fresh shingles on the roof and sit down to hot food every night and talk about how happy and normal they were.

She wouldn't be shoveled out to some squalid alienage. She wouldn't be forced to work on the docks or in the mines or the sewers or the slaughterhouse or the construction sites. She wouldn't get half a wage for three times the work then try to spend it in the market where everything cost twice as much.

And she probably wouldn't feel a rage boil up inside of here every time she saw one of those flaming swords of "mercy."

No wonder she was one of those mages who probably went day-to-day in the Circle without so much as a second thought. Even if you were a slave in a tower, it was better to be a slave with round ears.

"Good luck with that," Vell said, now kind of disgusted. It must be nice to be so oblivious, she thought.

"What about you?" Anya asked.

"I'll be dead," she said with some morbid certainty that she shook of her shoulders with a shrug.

Finally, Anya had the moment of shock that Vell was looking for. She looked at Vell with those big, hazel, pitying eyes.

"Why do you think that?" Anya asked.

Why _don't_ you think that is the question Vell wanted to turn right back around in her face. Was she stupid?

The second the mages broke from the Circle, the Templars immediately went to war with them. They bloodied each other until the Divine called a desperate conclave at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. And what had happened? The whole thing got blown to hell and beyond.

The only reason the killing had stopped was because the Inquisition scooped up all the mages and what was left of the Templars had starting chugging red lyrium and gone even more fucking insane than before.

"Because they're never going to let the mages go and I'm never going back," Vell said as she ground her fist into one palm. "The Templars will find me, eventually.

"And when they do, I'll make sure they don't take me back alive."


	48. Chapter 48

**Forty-eight**

The fingers of his right hand clutched down onto the staff over his shoulder and he held it for a moment as his left hand quickly traced the glyphs in the air before giving each a slight shove forward to place it on the ground before them.

It was difficult to concentrate with all the shouting as the knights drew steel and circled around the carriages, chevaliers barking orders to each other as their horsies whinnied and wheeled around into a defensive ring.

Taesas lifted his eyes slightly, gauging the distance of the approaching Venatori detachment ahead of them. It had to be at least fifty men strong, he thought, as he traced the pattern on another glyph and pushed it out into place.

Under normal circumstances, the chevaliers would charge down an unmounted group like this one, but there was no way they would leave the carriages and the women and nobles that rode inside of them. Their horses would be of little benefit on the defensive, so the glyphs would be an advantage they would sorely need.

The foolishness of Marquis de Chevin now came to fruition, as Taesas had warned him it would.

Raoul de Chevin was young, foppish, naive and, worst of all, arrogant.

On the first day Taesas had arrived, he had warned the Marquis of the danger the Inquisition's spies had advised him of - traffic at the official border crossing between Nevarra and Orlais had slowed considerably within the last two weeks, almost as if the merchants had found a more convenient, and more illicit, place to cross without having to pay customs on their goods.

Raoul the fool had written it off as a coincidental slow down, despite the warning that an untended crossing could open the door to something more hazardous than duty-free wagons.

On the second day, the marquis had played host to a small tournament, where he lounged in the shade of a raised box and watched the dregs of the local Orlesian and Nevarran nobility knock each other about in melee and jousting lists in hopes of a winning a purse so meager it would make Heartlander lords laugh. Taesas had warned the marquis then that there were commoners who were watching his box too closely, commoners who looked far too clean and far too olive-skinned to be pig farmers from Chevin.

Raoul the fool had laughed it off, stating to his young lady wife that, of course the commoners were watching him, because when else would they get to spy someone so regal? The young woman had agreed with the kindest platitudes, though it was clear her marriage had already emptied her of whatever spark and zeal she might have had for life before she had taken her vows.

On the third night, the marquis had hosted a masquerade in the keep, with dancing that was as out of season as the wine that was too rich for him to afford serving to guests. Taesas had advised him against the gathering in the first place and nearly pleaded for him to reconsider the idea of a masquerade, where an enemy could hide in plain sight. How would he see an assassin in a crowded hall, when he had not even noticed the three different Inquisition agents who had infiltrated his home the day before?

Raoul the fool had dismissed the notion that no one, not even the Venatori would be so brazen to dare an attempt on his life in his own hall.

He was, at least, partially right in that respect. The Ventaroi killer had not come for him, but for his young lady wife. It became clear when Taesas discovered her to be Lucia Anaxas of Cumberland, whose father had bartered her into the marriage in order to secure a reduced tariff for goods crossing the border that in time would greatly enrich Cumberland and beggar Val Chevin. Although the old lord appeared to spare little regard for his youngest daughter, he would no doubt be enraged if anything were to happen her across the border in Orlais.

When the marquise had excused herself from the hall to freshen up, Taesas had followed at a distance. When she turned down the hall and into the powder room, he quickened his pace, stepping inside the door without knocking in time to catch the forearm of the killer just after he had emerged from the wardrobe, knife in hand.

The pulses of ice froze the man's arm solid in Taesas grasp, until he was able to give it a hard jerk and separate the frozen limb with a crack at the elbow. As the Venatori assassin stumbled backward in horror, Taesas was able to grab him by the collar, push his other palm against the center of the man's chest and send a pulse of ice through his ribs and into his heart.

He had told the frightened marquise to return to her quarters and lock the doors and windows and let no one in, except him.

The house guard cleared the ballroom shortly after being alerted to the assassination attempt. Marquis de Chevin looked twice the fool, and his wife, true to her promise, did not unbar the door to their bedroom despite his furious shouting and banging that echoed throughout the keep.

When the marquis grew tired and retreated to another bed, only then did Taesas steal his way upstairs, announced himself quietly at her chamber door and gained admittance.

Lucia was more shaken by the event than he might have expected - she wasn't Orlesian and used to such casual murder being afoot at parties - but she proved easy to console. Her vibrant blue eyes were still full of a virginal innocence and with a soft touch across the cheek, a gentle kiss and an insincere apology for such unacceptable and forward behavior, she unraveled.

Convincing her to fall to his allegiance thereafter had not been terribly difficult.

On the fourth day, today, even though Lucia had protested to the idea of traveling all the way to Montfort for _another_ tournament, she unfortunately proved unable to sway her husband to see reason and listen to the ambassador from the Inquisition who was only looking out for their safety and security.

And now, Taesas was here, caught on a disadvantageous battlefield because of it and left to protect the idiot lord, his family and household staff.

The master of the guard, Ser Raedric, at least, was a good man to stand beside in battle. He was not a chevalier, but he was experienced and intelligent, with a subtle but purposeful cunning that belied his cordial and accommodating demeanor. He had lived a long enough time in the courts of Orlais to pick up a few tricks of the trade.

When the marquis had protested that he should be in command of the defense of himself and his house, Ser Raedric had stopped the marquis with a few firm words that Taesas wasn't able to overhear but that were effective in quieting Raoul and getting him to fall in at the back of the column.

"Should we expect mages, Enchanter?" Ser Raedric asked as he wheel his horse next to Taesas as he finished laying the last of his glyphs and took a breath as he closed off his connection to his mana.

"Absolutely," Taesas said. "I'd prepare for the worst - elemental spells, demon binding, even blood magic."

"Maker be merciful," the aged knight muttered to himself.

"I will do what I can to aid your men, but I won't be able to protect them all," Taesas said. It was the truth and Raedric was worthy of hearing it. Depending on how many mages the Venatori had brought, there might be some question of how well Taesas could protect himself, much less the others.

Raedric gave a hard nod without another word and put his heels into his horse as he took up his position at the front of the defensive line the chevaliers, knights and soldiers had drawn. Taesas sat on the far left flank, where he would be well out of the way of the melee combat and where he could, ideally, stare down the line of Venatori attackers and spread magical death upon them.

"Protect the marquis and the carriages at all costs!" Raedric shouted.

Taesas glanced back over his shoulder at the three boxy wheelhouses, two of which now had women poking their heads out of the doors to see what was approaching. Raedric might have ordered the drivers to turn them around and put some space between the battle and the carriages, but keeping them close prevented a secondary ambush that might be lying in wait and would give the defenders additional motivation to hold off anyone attempting to break the line.

The Venatori were close enough he could now hear their shouts as their warriors charged forward wielding swords and axes, lightly armored archers keeping step behind them. Taesas watched as the skirmishers stopped and set arrows to their bows, lifting them to the sky as they let the first volley loose.

He ignored the arrows as they whistled through the air, none close to him, as the knights raised their shields before them to protected themselves. One horse screamed, kicking up into the air and spillings its rider before sprinting away from the battlefield with an arrow lodged in its front shoulder.

"Hold!" Raedric bellowed, his sword lifted patiently over his head as he watched the approaching army.

The second wave of arrows flew overhead as shields came up again to deflect them. Taesas raised a barrier of his own as one arrow twisted in the window in his direction, watching as it deflected off the milky shield of magic.

Where were the mages? He scanned the battlefield again, quickly, not seeing any Venatori hanging back behind the archers or further up between the missile troops and the melee bruisers. He glanced behind again, checking to make sure a second group hadn't gotten around to their flank. Nothing.

"Hold!" Raedric called again as he dragged his sword down the face of his shield, snapping off the shafts of two arrows he had caught in the kite at the last volley.

Then he saw, it, as one archer dropped his bow and swept his arm in front of him, raising his palm up to toward the sky. Above his head, a ball of roiling flame began to swirl, growing wider and wider as its imprint grew larger than the ball of the sun hanging in the sky above them.

It would only be a moment longer before the lines crashed, suicide to send such a spell into the Orlesian defenders. No, the height and size of the ball of flame that rose about the Venatori mage was not meant for them.

Taesas twirled his staff, twisting it under his right armpit and couching it like a lance, the speared end pointing out forward. He extended his left hand, eyeing the rapidly shrinking patch of road and grass between the two lines of fighters as he threw himself open to the Fade once more, letting the mana rush in. His eyes locked on the locations, darting back and forth setting the targets as he gathered the magic needed.

The sphere of fire began to move, thrown up at an arc as he suspected like some oversized ball tossed by a child too small to fully grasp it to convey it to a friend.

"Hold!" Raedric boomed again even as everyone's gaze lifted up toward the sky and the ball of fire fluttering over them.

Now, Taesas knew, as he swept his left hand in front of him, the ice mines setting themselves on the ground just before the charging Venatori soldiers. With no way to stop in time, they ran over the spells, bursts of frost and snow exploding around them as the soldiers stopped to a crawl wrapped in ice.

Ser Raedric saw the opportunity before him as he spun his sword around in his wrist and pointed it forward.

"CHARGE!"

The line of Orlesian knights lurched forward toward their crippled foes as Taesas lifted his staff under his arm, judging the path of the fireball as it crested its arc and began to dip down toward the defenseless carriages. The staff under his arm vibrated as the energy coursed through it, held back taut like a bowstring as a halo of hazy frost swirled around the implement.

The tip of his staff moved slightly, anticipating the ball of flame as it descended and, with little time to wait longer, he unleashed the spell.

The lance of ice fired so fiercely forward the staff kicked back in his arm like a Qunari cannon. The icicle shredded the air around it, leaving a trail of white frost and steam behind it until it met the ball of flame in mid-air, the lance piercing the side of the orb. As the spells collided, he watched the surface of the fireball suck inward and the red and yellow fire swirl around the wound before the sphere collapsed inward, a great wave of fire belching and spilling out and up harmlessly away from the carriages with an explosive roar that shook the ground beneath him.

As he returned his glance toward the field, he watched as one of the Venatori that had slipped past the line hit and triggered one of Taesas' glyphs underfoot, trapping the heavily armored warrior in a ring of yellow paralytic energy.

Taesas spurred his horse forward until he was nearly on top of the man, spinning his staff around and pulling a tight ball of force energy around the rounded head of his staff, swinging it down until it collided with the helmet of the man, twisting his head back and around to the side with an audible crack. As the paralysis subsided, the body fell limp the ground, helmet severely dented and head turned almost completely around from its normal position.

The Orlesian defenders were making short work of their frozen enemies, knights weaving in and out butchering the frosted Venatori while holding enough of a line to make sure none passed through. At this rate, Taesas thought, the battle would be quickly won as the bodies fell in heaps of ice and vibrant red blood.

There was so much blood.

"Fall back!" he yelled too late as he felt an uncomfortable twinge through his body as he watched the swirl of blood begin to rise and swirl up from the battlefield like a swarm of insects.

The Venatori mage held both before him glowing in a sickened crimson as he rolled his hands around, guiding the rivulets of blood like a conductor at symphony. The swirling storm of blood ripped through one of the knights as if he and his horse were hit by a thousand bolts from a thousand crossbows all at once, their bodies collapsing in a shredded pile as their blood only added to the fury of the storm rising at the mage's command.

The cyclone of blood tore through another two knights as Taesas began to quickly recite the words of Litany of Adralla, summoning the power against blood magic as his horse recoiled back from the stench of iron as the blood swirled around and cut the Orlesian defenders apart.

The tornado turned as its slashed through the armor of a chevalier and disintegrated his shield as if it were made of paper in the face of a rainstorm. The column of spiraling blood twisted behind the fighters, once again aiming toward the carriages.

 _Maker hear my cry, I give my head, my heart, my hands to you; I beseech you, answer my call; I invoke your power in my name, Adralla of Vyrantium;_

The words spilled off Taesas' lips as quickly as he could form them while his fingers worked just as quickly tracing the runes in the air before him with a small, white light at the tip of his finger. The column of swirling blood dipped down and battered the side of the first carriage, the wooden wall shredding as each droplet struck and ripped through it.

He could hear screaming, could see the women inside shoving themselves to the back of the cushioned seats inside in a vain attempt to escape the fury of the blood mage's spell. One was not so lucky, as the howling torrent of blood first struck her legs, then the maelstrom sucked her backward until she was battered and ripped apart in the twister.

 _Shield me from the black magic; Protect me from the wickedness of blood; For yours is the power and the glory everlasting; Through the Maker and the Fiery Bride Andraste; I will be saved!_

Taesas shoved his hands forward at the end of the incantation, a bolt of white light striking from the heavens down like lightning through the center of the sanguine storm. The cyclone stopped all at once as the remaining blood all dropped from the air at once, blanketing the inside of the carriage and the ground around it.

Taesas's arms slumped, feeling weak at the frenzied and sudden exertion as he exhaled for what felt like the first breath he had taken since rattling the cantos of the litany. The surviving women were drenched in blood, screaming and cowering at the horror they had just barely escaped.

Just then he felt the crack of another magic, different from the last, but equally as disturbing.

He lifted his head back toward the direction of the battlefield, toward where black, wispy shades hung around the bodies of fallen soldiers - Venatori and Orlesian both - and raised them from the ground to fight again.. The Venatori mage's armed were shrouded in black shadows as he worked the spell, calling the shades across the Veil and binding them to the corpses.

But it wasn't that display of necromancy that had caught his attention.

He saw it in a flash, a pulse of green light that hadn't been there a moment earlier, as one of the archers was thrown through the air as if he had been hit by the momentum of a stone that had rolled down from the peaks of the Frostbacks.

It was nearly a full second lead before the crack of thunder sounded and he felt the vibration across the Veil.

It was a full second after that that he fully reconciled the sight of _her._

No... it was impossible!

"Enemy reinforcements! Fall back! Protect the marquis!" Ser Raedric's voice boomed over the field as he drove his sword down into one of the re-animated Venatori fighters, ignorant for now of the fact that these, too, were Inquisition-aligned despite their wielding of such frightening and heretical magic.

How? How was _she_ here? Why, why did she seem to haunt every step he took since their chance pairing on the road to Ceraux?

"Fall back! Fall back!" Ser Raerdic and the other knights were pulling back behind the lumbering wights, back across the line of protective glyphs glowing softly underfoot.

Taesas blinked at another flash of green light as _she_ thrust forward with her arm, an explosion of magic into the stomach of another one of the archers, popping him off his feet before he collapsed back inward and down into the dirt.

"No…" he muttered to himself in disbelief as he spied an approaching column behind her, a small army of charging warriors, headed by a dwarf riding a heavily armored bronto and spinning two axes over his head like some crazed berserker.

How did she gather such a force around her? How did they know that the Venatori would strike here? How… how had she developed such a power, such terrible fury that he could feel reverberating through the Fade with every strike she threw?

How many times had she humiliated him thus far and gotten away with it?

"No!" he shouted as the anger boiled up through his throat with nothing to hold it back as he kicked his horse and pressed it forward at a full sprint.

"Enchanter!" Marquis de Chevin's voice was almost totally lost in the wind whipping into his ears as he charged, his horse nearly raked as it charged between two reanimated corpses and toward the Venatori mage and commander now engaged with _her._

The mage pushed her back with a flurry of spirit bolts, putting some space between him and her as he phased backward and away as she lunged with another one of her strikes.

Her army was nearly on top of the archers. Taesas pointed his horse toward the backtracking Venatori mage. As she began to charge toward the Venatori commander again, Taesas threw a glyph forward just under her feet, the seal of repulsion bursting and tossing her backward and away from the Tevinter mage.

He leapt off the horse even as it ran and rolled into the grass, quickly recovering back his feet as he faced the Venatori commander before him.

"Are you fucking crazy!" he could hear her voice shouting from behind him.

Taesas lifted his hand over his head as the wind began to rise, drowning out _her_ voice as the temperature dropped and the wind kicked up with snow and ice, encasing him and his opponent inside the middle of the howling blizzard.

Taesas tapped the rounded head of his staff against the ground twice as tendrils of frost snaked over his body like vines, shielding him a frozen armor that wrapped him like the thinnest lace.

The Venatori commander, dressed in black robes with a hood pulled up over his head, didn't seem affected by the winter storm as he planted his staff into the ground before him and his entire body seemed to fade and blur slightly as he wrapped himself in a shroud of arcane magic.

"I did not expect the Marquis would be traveling with one such as you," the mage said in a Tevinter accent that sounded gritty and rolling. His left hand came up to his chin where he ran his fingers across the oiled, pointed beard as he whispered something under his breath, before he reached down toward the belt at his hip. With a slight jerk, he withdrew a wavy kris knife from its scabbard. The blackened metal blade seemed to glow with the dullest red light, with what Taesas could swear was an audible buzz, or the whispering of a thousand voices all at once.

"I've never had the pleasure of killing a mage raised trained by your cunt-worshipping Chantry," he hissed as his body crouched slightly, staff extended forward but the knife pulled back and down behind him as he turned his body. With a flick of his neck, he tossed the hood off of his head, exposing his face, the left side of which was marked with scars that looked like someone had cut runes into his flesh. Even now, blood leaked from his nostrils, his left ear and out of the corner of his left eye where tears might normally fall.

Inside his left eye, Taesas could see veins of pulsing, smoldering red light that seemed to crack his iris like fissures in molten stone.

Taesas was not ignorant of the physical symptoms, nor the black hole that seemed to suck at the mage from the other side of Fade from the sickening influence of red lyrium on him.

"You'll find I'm more than you can handle," Taesas said as he stepped backward into his own defensive position, his left arm up as if he were wielding the shield that he didn't have with him and the speared end of his staff pointed forward and ready to strike.

The Venatori mage seemed almost to wail like a scolded child or a sickened dog. "You are _nothing_ without the blessings of the Elder One!"

He came forward lunged forward, feinting with his staff as he spun around, the red lyrium-laced dagger whirling through the air until it checked off the blade of Taesas' staff. He continued moving forward, unimpeded by the haze of the blizzard as his speed seemed to increase with each spin, staff and dagger each sweeping down from overhead in a whirlwind as Taesas deflected each strike as he shuffled his feet backward to maintain space.

After checking the third blow from the dagger, he swept back with his staff, but the Venatori mage stopped almost perfectly on his toes and nearly floated backward, the strike whooshing harmlessly before his stomach as his robes billowed backward like the specter of a shade. As he fluttered backward, he grunted as he pulled his staff across his body, unleashing a barrage of spirits bolts that fanned out from behind him like plumage.

Taesas stepped up and whirled his staff in front of him like a wheel, deflecting each of the bolts away before spinning to his right, pulling a burst of cold into his right palm and hurling it forward in a cone of icy spikes. As the ice crept forward, the points skewered nothing at all as he felt a whoosh that phased through him, followed by the bite of steel across his shoulder blades as he barely turned away from the strike as the Venatori mage materialized behind him after stepping through the Fade.

He could feel the sting of the blizzard's cold through the rend the mage had opened in his robe, but below that, a burning that seemed to pulse far deeper into the wound than it actually was. In his head, it was almost as if his thoughts scrambled and broke before he could fully form them, which he knew to be the searing effect of the red lyrium.

Taesas stepped back, focusing his thought with more concentration that usual, and waved his hand over his left shoulder. The burst of healing magic repaired the small cut, closing it before this blood mage could use Taesas' wounds against him.

"Does it sting?" the Venatori commander asked with glee bitten back just at the tip of his tongue. "Tell me how it pains you."

Taesas responded instead with a thrust of his staff, checked with a cross-block before the mage's chest. The Venatori came forward, thrusting with his own staff. Taesas stepped out of the way, turning his body toward the right. The Venatori almost beamed with a smile as he stepped up and slashed up and across with the knife under Taesas' arms and his exposed chest.

Just as he had expected his opponent to do.

Taesas' hand snapped out, latching onto the Venatori's wrist as he twisted the mage's arm around, wrenching the red lyrium dagger out of his fingers as the man's elbow locked and shoulder twisted. Now off balance, the Venatori mage could not keep his feet and tumbled down toward the ground.

As he tried to quickly scramble to his feet, he was forced back down from a fist of force magic summoned from above, punching him back down into the dirt. As his breath was forced out of his lungs with an audible gasp, it was followed by the quiet gurgle of blood welling up his throat.

Taesas pressed down harder on the shaft of staff, driving the pointed blade down as it punctured through flesh and muscle in the mage's back. The Venatori jerked and shuddered, as Taesas planted his foot in the small of the man's back and gave another hard thrust down, feeling resistance until the rib bones gave way and crunched and the speared point penetrated down until it found berth in the ground below.

The wind and snow of the blizzard around him died down and subsided, the white winter shroud falling like a curtain, revealing the otherwise sunny and clear conditions of eastern Orlais once more.

The malcontent was standing there, waiting, breathing heavily. Her eyes glanced down at the impaled body on the ground, then back up at Taesas. He made sure to hold her gaze as he twisted the shaft of his staff and gave a hard tug, jerking it out the Venatori commander's spine as he stepped off the dead man.

The knights and the soldiers - if they could even be called soldiers - from _her_ party were cutting down the last of the Venatori.

Taesas reached down, rolling the Venatori mage over, ignoring the frozen wide-eyed look on his face, and tore the silverite twin snakes medallion off the commander's chest.

He stood back up, straight and tall. "You're bleeding," Taesas said, pointing to a cut across _her_ left cheek.

She instinctively touched the cheek, wiping her fingers across it and inadvertently smearing it. By the time she scowled back at him, he had already turned away to return to Marquis de Chevin and the wagons.

Taesas strode past the scattered bodies in the field, carefully stepping around puddles of blood and gore pooled in the grass from the slaughter. Some of the walking corpses had made it pretty far back toward the carriages, he now noticed, and only one of his many glyphs remained. He waved his hand at it, unraveling the magic as the light dissipated and disappeared.

Just a handful of the Orlesian soldiers remained. They had won, but it was a costly battle. Without the reinforcements, maybe they all would have perished.

Ser Raedric gave Taesas a slight nod as the old knight ran a rag across his sword to clean the blood off of it. Some of the surviving men were helping the women out of the shredded carriage, the ladies looking pale and on the edge of fainting at the ordeal they had just survived.

Marquis Raoul was standing up against the side of one of the other carriages, clutching his left forearm.

"Where were _you_?" the marquis said bitterly as he saw Taesas approaching.

Taesas reached into his pocket, producing the Venatori emblem. "Dealing with the enemy commander, neutralizing the threat that _I_ have been warning you of for three days." He tossed the emblem at the marquis. Raoul made no attempt to catch it, the metal clinking off of his breastplate and down onto the road where it clattered as it landed.

"Your orders were to protect me and my family, not to charge headlong into the enemy!" the marquis raged. "I am wounded! I am wounded because of you!"

The marquis brandished his left arm forward, right hand still clamped over a split in his armor. The lord had a few other fresh scratches on his breastplate, including one near the shoulder. A pity the strike hadn't veered a little higher and slashed him in the mouth.

"You'll survive, I'm afraid," Taesas said sarcastically as he tossed a bit of healing magic in the marquis' direction. The young lord startled backward as the wound began to close. He spared himself a chuckle at the fool as his fingers pressed against the exposed skin, now sealed and whole again.

"You think this is funny, don't you?" the marquis accused as he stepped forward into Taesas's face. "Is this all just a game, you knife-eared scum?"

"Not at all, my lord," Taesas said, adding the honorific only to mock him. "It is life and death, as I tried to tell you three days ago. Had I not countered that ball or flame or that cyclone of blood, all of your knights, all of your retainers, all of your family, including your most innocent and beautiful wife, would be dead. And you, my lord. You would be dead, if not for me.

"So perhaps a little gratitude is warranted, my lord," Taesas said, holding the marquis' enraged gaze with a serious and grave cool. "I have many friends in the Empire, my lord. And those who are not my friends, well, to be honest, my lord, they tend to not live long enough to pester me."

If Marquis Raoul knew what kind of threat that was, he should have blanched.

But Marquis Raoul was young, foppish, naive and, worst of all, arrogant.

As the spit splashed into Taesas' face, he knew the marquis' sweet and lithe young wife would soon have the joy of being widowed and able to return home to her father's house with new hope of being matched to a smarter, better man.

"Get out of my sight," Raoul growled. "And don't ever return to my lands or I will have you killed! The sooner the Chantry puts all you Maker-damned beasts back into your pens, or better yet, to the sword, the better! I won't suffer the arrogance of a knife-eared…"

Taesas stopped listening as the marquis continued to scream like a raving lunatic. He was hardly fit to be called a noble, much less a man. The Game would not let such crudeness go unpunished, no matter the name or the title.

Taesas had come north, come to Val Chevin to serve, to do the Inquisition's will and protect these fools from themselves. He had done that, and the fools were too blind to appreciate the pathetic lives they continued to live as a gift from him.

Such grievous slights would not stand, now or ever.

Taesas raised his forearm and wiped his face with his sleeve.

He grabbed the reins of a nearby horse, a knight's horse, though the knight was nowhere near it and, most clearly, no longer alive to ride it. Taesas swung himself up into the saddle, glanced up at the sky and figured he had a good six hours before dusk, then gave the horse a light tap to get it walking.

As his horse walked down the road and past the ragged army and the rift mages who stood with it, Vell crossed her arms as he approached and looked up toward the saddle.

"Awww, did you two have a fight?" she said as she cocked her head to side and smiled widely.

He didn't dignify that with a response, instead keeping his head and gaze turned forward, allowing the horse to walk past her without a word.

When the Inquisition heard that this Venatori threat had been discovered, attacked and neutralized by him and only because of him, it would speak well to the rugged discipline and structured training of the Circle. A mage trained in the ways of the court, studied in the use of magic for defense, in service to man, was already known, trusted and valued.

 _She,_ on the other hand, had been mistaken for by an aged and experienced knight as a bandit. The letter he would compel Maquise Lucia to write to the Inquisitor would bear witness. He had protected the knights, saved them.

Perhaps he could convince her to add that the malcontent's bandits had actually extorted them for their coin and jewelry before letting them continue? _She_ could deny it, but it might not seem too outlandish for the company she kept.

This victory was his.

So let her have her jokes, if she wanted.

Let her have her heretics and her filthy bandits.

Let her enjoy her freedom, for now.

It wouldn't last.

He would make sure of it.


End file.
